


How to Cover Up a Scene

by TheAudity



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Accidential Murder, Attempted Suicide, Brian has a very bad day, Brigel, But one where everyone will eventually heal, Canon Divergence - Alternate Season 4, Canon-Typical References to Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, Missing Persons Investigations, Not Really A Happy Ending, Poor Brian, Possession, Queliot Evermore, References to recreational drug use, The Monster really should be their own archive warning, Withdrawal, chapter 1 can be read as a standalone with a cliffhanger ending, no body no crime, non-con warning for chapters 2&3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:47:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29123652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAudity/pseuds/TheAudity
Summary: He’d forced himself to stop reading up on missing persons investigative procedures sometime last night. Between the advice to call local hospitals, homeless shelters, morgues, and the constant reminders that if you didn’t find any solid threads to follow within the first 48 hours, well. There was only so long any person could spend tugging at their hair and trying not to hyperventilate. For a moment, he had considered bringing it up the next time he saw his therapist, going back onto something for his resurging anxiety, but no. This was something that needed to be felt. The grey concrete walls of the interview room felt more and more suffocating by the minute.Muldoon cleared his throat, drawing Brian’s attention back from their warped reflections on the metal table. “Look, I get it. It’s frustrating, I know, but we still can’t even say for sure that he’s actually missing.”“Yeah, uh-huh, except that he’s, you know,actually fucking missing.”
Relationships: Brian/Nigel (The Magicians), Brian/The Monster (The Magicians), Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/The Monster
Comments: 15
Kudos: 20
Collections: It Always Leads to You





	How to Cover Up a Scene

**Author's Note:**

> WOW GUYS this story has been...an experience. So, let’s get some housekeeping done first.
> 
> Let’s start with the light stuff, the thank you’s; Rubi, thank you for encouraging this story to come to fruition, and for making it as bad as it is. I was going to end on a cliffhanger, but your questions lead to two more chapters of this mess, and despite being the writer of this...whatever it is, I blame you for all of it. Love you <3\. Hoko and Tay, your cheer reading and motivation really gets me through the day so often, and I’m so lucky that I get to create in a space side by side with you two. Thank you so much. And Kate, seriously, thank you for letting me co-opt so many of your Brigel ideas from “Shine Through My Memory” (which, yo, if any of you are reading this note and HAVEN’T read Shine, go. Now. Seriously it’s fucking amazing). I’ve definitely strived to make my Brian and Nigel their own people, but you will forever be the founder of the Welsh!Nigel agenda and for that I am eternally grateful. Diolch! Lastly, thank you to each and every member of the P&P Discord Community, for your kind words whenever I shared a snipped of this, and your help whenever I asked for help coming up with names for background characters and what not. Writing never happens in a vacuum, and this story in particular needed all of you.
> 
> Now, let’s talk about this actual fic. Firstly, please please PLEASE mind the tags on this fic. If you have any specific triggers you're concerned about, you can either message me here, or on Tumblr (user/TheAudity). This story was half "can I make the hardest song to turn into a Queliot fic from Evermore into a decent Queliot fic", and half me pouring all my worst impulses onto the pages. YMMV as to how much control you believe anyone has in any given situation, though the intended amount was typically "not much".
> 
> Also, a few differences from canon here. So, in 4.01 they made it pretty clear that the main cast had their appearances changed along with their memories. Well I decided that was dumb and I don’t like that so, they all still look like themselves. I’ve decided the potion worked quite differently, and I’ll go into those details in chapter 3. But yeah. That’s a thing now. That's about it. Chapters 2 & 3 are in the works and hopefully won't take forever to post, but knowing me and how slow I write, they'll probably be a month out each. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this story, and I hope you enjoy it so far.

* * *

All in all, Tuesday really was the most overlooked day of the week. Monday earned everyone ire, Friday their praises, Saturday their celebration and Sunday their worship. But despite it's underwhelming status on the calendar, Brian Devlin credited Tuesday as the day that made every week worthwhile.

The mornings were easy, with his only class being a graduate lecture on British Poetry to tend to. He loved all his students, but his postgraduates held a special place in his heart for their genuine desire to learn, ever present in their rich discussions of symbolism and metaphor and their meticulous note taking. They were a far cry from his Friday afternoon freshmen Intro to Classics course. His Tuesday lecture always left him invigorated, and having Wednesday free from teaching meant that it was the perfect night of the week to go out. The majority of the populace would be home, the bars and bistros he favored would be less loud, and his time with Nigel could be spent guilt free.

Brian had never believed in fairy tales. The magic of storytelling was found in analyzing each and every word, digging out the meaning and discovered how even the most fantastical of tales were mirrors of the worlds they were written in. Whenever he considered the lives led by the heroes of his favorite works; Odysseus, Gilgamesh, Beowulf, their trials rang true but their lives were  _ terrible _ . To be at the heart of a tale was to suffer, and Brian was more than happy for his life to remain small and unimportant. But when he'd first crashed into Nigel at the entry of his favorite bookstore, literally crashed because he'd been thirty pages into an early English edition of Anna Karenina and Nigel had been nothing more than a tall, distracted obstacle fiddling with his phone in the doorway, Brian had felt something change. 

_ His anger at being knocked to the ground, taking out three piles of books with him, had only lasted as long as it took for him to look up at the glimmering hazel eyes of the man before him, wide with worry as he reached to help Brian up. Apologies flowed as freely off his tongue as his melodic Welsh accent, and he'd pushed his dark curls back with a shaky hand. _

_ "Sorry, sorry! God, are you alright?" The gorgeous stranger asked. Brian's throat went dry as his tirade of Boston-born anger sunk into his stomach, consumed by a flutter he hadn't felt since he'd seen his high school girlfriend walking down the stairs of her home before he took her to prom. He swallowed. _

_ "Yeah, I'm... I'm fine." _

_ "Ah, good." He laughed softly, before turning his attention to the bookstore interior. It's aisles were narrow, even narrower than the city streets he'd called home before moving to Vancouver, and each one was lined with stacks and stacks of books, all piled to Brian's shoulder or higher. The human obstacle shook his head a little and brushed his black wool pea coat down. "Pretty shite layout for a shop innit?" _

_ Brian grinned. It was a complaint he'd heard every time he brought a friend, or on rare occasion, a date here, and somehow it never got old. "It's—um, I don't think it's really a problem if you're—you know, actually watching where you're going." He chuckled, awkwardly waving his book. _

_ Tall, dark, and strong-jawed shrugged, still smiling. "Right on. Still, I wasn't helping. Least I can do is get you a pint...You wouldn't happen to be free tonight, are you?" _

_ He looked to the side, laughing. Brian knew he was attractive, with his extremely soft brown hair and matching eyes that his last ex had described as 'puppy-like—only, in a sexy way'. But—if Adonis could find himself walking among these city streets, even  _ he _ would envy this man. Not just for the strength of his features, but also for the light of his smile, the openness of his face. Guys like this didn't flirt with Brian, let alone hold a conversation with him after he'd slammed into their side face first. He flushed. "I—yeah, I think I am." _

_ The stranger—Brian thought he really should ask his name soon, went alight. His energy was effervescent, and Brian was only half convinced he'd imagined the spark he felt in his core when those hazel eyes held his own. He held out a hand, a clear invitation, and without understanding how, Brian knew he would be a fool to not see where this road went. "How lush." He intoned, and Brian could already feel himself going under. _

No, Brian had never believed in fairy tales. He wasn't a part of any greater story and he didn't want to be. But when Nigel swept into his life and swept him off his feet, he could almost imagine that maybe he was in a good one. One with a happy ending for a change.

The six months since had been the closest thing to a whirlwind romance he had ever known. Somewhere between nights spent dragging Nigel to the sorts of wine bars favored by his English department colleagues but— _ "they've got this one Merlot—I swear, it's the best thing I've ever tasted, makes the whole drive worth it" _ , only to find it somehow tasted even better on Nigel's tongue, and being dragged to picnic at lighthouse park for sunset, he'd realized he was falling in love. 

He'd seen the living rooms where Nigel's band hung out after practice, and the local nights at rundown clubs where Nigel transformed as he screamed over the crowd, and Nigel had seen him through the worse than anticipated anniversary of his sister's car accident. It shouldn't have hurt as much as it had; six years had passed after all. But Brian had found himself staring at the ceiling from his couch, without the energy or will to move. After completely forgetting to show up for their movie date, and six hours of unanswered texts, Nigel had shown up at his door, guitar and takeout in hand. He'd propped Brian up and made him eat, made him take his antidepressants, and when Brian hadn't had the heart to make small talk, he'd played his music, letting his concern and care flow through Brian's apartment in the melodies.  _ 'Music's always been there for me,' _ he'd said in lieu of the more serious concerns likely lingering at the tip of his tongue,  _ "Da's never approved much, but like, he doesn't care as long as I leave the family name out of it. Easy enough, since it's never really been mine." _

Brian could still recall the softness in his eyes that evening with perfect clarity, the way it had made something inside of him crack open, release everything inside of himself he had been afraid to feel. He remembered it as though it had been yesterday, and not just two weeks into whatever they would become.  _ "I know it's not much," _ he'd said, so softly and so carefully,  _ "but I hope it can be there for you too." _

That was the first time he'd invited Nigel to stay the night. Nigel had kissed his eyelids, the hollow of his throat, the pulse point of his wrists, and brought him back to life with each touch. He'd cried when he came, feeling smaller and safer in Nigel's arms than he could remember feeling in years. He'd clung to Nigel's body like a raft in a stormy sea and Nigel had looked into the worst of him and not blinked. The clutch of his fingers laced between Brian's had been his tether, and though he had come out on the other side relatively unscathed, Nigel had never stopped being the anchor that kept him in safer waters.

He'd continued to infiltrate Brian's life in quiet ways; the boxes of tea in his cupboard, the book of Lord Byron's poetry on his nightstand that Nigel would read aloud to him on particularly hard days, the spare toothbrush in his bathroom. He couldn't say when Nigel had woven himself into the fabric of his life. Maybe that March weekend had solidified his feelings, or maybe it had been a first stitch. It hardly seemed to matter though, when considering the tapestry that thread had become.

On this most beautiful of Tuesday nights, Brian found himself lying with Nigel in much the same fashion; sated to his bones, a thin sheen of sweat cooling across his body. Their limbs were a tangled mess strewn across the sheets, and Brian let out a contented sigh as his fingers carded through Nigel's chest hair. His medication alarm would probably go off any minute, but for now, he could relish in Nigel's scent and the weight of his hand on Brian's hip.

“Hey,” he grinned into his boyfriend’s chest, nestling closer and melting into the way Nigel wrapped his arm across his back, keeping him as close as possible. “I’ve still got a few papers to grade tomorrow, but—you should come visit me after practice. I do try to keep my office hours _flexible_.” He finished with a waggle of his eyebrows. Nigel couldn’t see it, but—that didn’t feel like it mattered much.

Nigel tightened his hold for a moment. It was a quick gesture, hardly a blink, but Brian had to bite back the urge to tense. Perhaps his favorite thing about Nigel was how open he was, how little he tried to hide. Nigel’s emotions were larger than life, loud and grand and made to be turned into art. But sometimes Brian worried that his heart was too open. He couldn’t hide a feeling to save his life, and he was practically made of tells. His eyes flicked upwards whenever he remembered something funny, and he broke eye contact whenever he was embarrassed. He shifted his weight nearly uncontrollably whenever he was nervous, and he always tensed whenever he was afraid he was going to disappoint someone. He exhaled. “I’d love to, but...I think practice is going to run late.”

“Hey, that’s totally fine, don’t worry about it.” Brian eased as he nuzzled against Nigel’s collarbones.  _ God _ they were such nice collarbones. “Did you guys book another show? The adoring masses can’t get enough of you?”

He tensed again. “If only it were good news.”

Reluctantly, Brian extracted himself from Nigel’s arms. The air had a bitter cold to it away from Nigel’s body, but if he was going to lead a serious conversation he needed to be able to look into Nigels eyes, convey all the warmth he could another way. “Alright then, what’s up.”

Nigel paused. Brian ran his thumbs back and forth across his knuckles, a silent promise that he could take all the time he needed, that there was no wrong answer. Brian didn’t know the whole story, he suspected he hardly knew a quarter, but if any of what he’d heard about Nigel’s father growing up was true, it was undoubtedly the sort of thing his lover would forget. Another beat, before Nigel finally met his gaze. “It’s probably nothing, but, erm, remember Kyle?”

He blinked. “Bass player Kyle who sprained his ankle jumping into an audience that clearly wasn’t in a mood for crowd surfing? Yeah, he’s kinda hard to forget.”

“Right, well...I’m not being funny, I think he’s using again.”

Brian sat up suddenly. This was—“Nigel, what the fuck? Isn’t he just—”

“Two months out of rehab, yes.” Nigel finished. He was looking down again, and it made Brian’s chest ache in a way it had never ached for anyone else. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous tick from high school he’d never managed to kick.

“ _ Fuck _ . Alright, well—what happened, why do you think he’s—you know.”

Nigel sat up with him. Despite his height, nearly a head taller than Brian, he looked so small and full of worry, and Brian wanted to wrap him up and keep him safe from a world that saw softness and compassion as things to be shredded like bones through the teeth of some nameless beast. It hardly mattered that Nigel could more than take care of himself, all the way down to the breathing counts he was following beside him. If Brian could do anything to ease the burden of the heart Nigel carried, he would. 

“Like I said, it’s just a suspicion. He’s been darting out of practice early, and he’s been off. Twitchy, you know? And Saturday he was absolutely tamping after our set, even though he'd been the one who missed half his bloody chords.”

He stopped for a breath. He was beginning to ramble, a manic edge bleeding into his tone, but telling him to slow down wouldn’t do any good. Brian just held his hand tighter, let him work through the thoughts. “I was... _ Ych a fi _ , Rachel asked me to go over the books with her—we should have been been getting close to having enough to rent a studio, record our demo, but—she was right, they were all off, and the records don’t start looking fishy till maybe a month back.”

“ _ Shit _ .”

“I don’t—I mean, I don’t think he means anything by it, he just...he’s being a right twp but I think he just needs help. Only he’s not coming to us Bri, so. I think I’m gonna call him out.”

The lines of worry on his forehead softened into something like resolve, and Brian's chest ached for him. The mistake he had noticed so many people make around Nigel, be it the booking managers of some of the grimier clubs downtown or his own elitist colleagues, or even himself sometimes, was that they tended to conflate his overwhelming sense of empathy with weakness. The difference was, Brian knew he was wrong. They hadn’t seen him on the phone with a crying Rachel at 3 AM, reminding her how to breathe through his cell while he searched for a shelter he could take her to on Brian’s. They hadn’t heard him after a show, talking with a teenage music enthusiast who had just come to the club for an escape only to find something in the lyrics that felt like a sign, hadn’t heard him cry with them as he talked about music saving him and promising it really  _ did _ get better. They hadn't watched him writing yet another letter to his mother, promising again that he hadn't abandoned her like the man who had taken advantage of her very same open heart. They hadn't seen his smile as he dropped it into the mailbox, hopeful but unexpectant, his eyes containing multitudes of storms and the realization that this one would go unanswered too. When Nigel decided something was worth doing, either it was done or he broke in the attempt, there was no middle ground. He made it known, his voice leaving no room for anything less. Whether he was telling the universe, or himself, was never clear, but that hardly mattered. He had that voice now. 

It hadn’t stopped him from being hurt before.

“I...really don’t think that’s a good idea.” Brian hesitated, “What if—what if he—I don’t know, gets violent or something?”

Nigel chuckled, taking his turn to squeeze Brian’s hand for comfort. “Love, he’s an addict, not a serial killer. He cried last week when a squirrel ran in front of his truck. It’s gonna be fine, I know it.”

True as that may have been—and who was he to say, he’d likely been in the middle of a class when that ride had occurred, this was also the same Kyle who’d been found wandering Granville Street with a hunting knife. Who had ranted and raved about imposters and invasions and how everyone was doomed. Who had to be pinned down by three police officers before he stopped struggling. Who hadn’t thought to tell anyone he’d been using amphetamines on the regular until he’d been forced into a court ordered rehab program. Needless to say, he wasn’t convinced. 

With a sigh, he tucked back under Nigel’s chin—a silent demand for cuddles that Nigel immediately obliged. They settled back down, Brian's arms crossed around Nigel’s back and Nigel’s gripping to his shoulders in a way that entirely betrayed the calm on his face. He wanted to protest, he wanted to tell Nigel it wasn’t worth it, to cut his losses, that he should have found a new bassist while Kyle was still in the hospital. He also knew Nigel was going to do it anyway. Least he could do was be with him for the fallout. “I still don’t like it, but. Alright. Think you’ll be able to meet me after?”

Nigel hummed against his scalp and Brian felt it vibrate through his entire body. “I’d love nothing more,  _ fy mach i _ .”

“You know, one of these days I’m going to look up what that means.”

“You’d have to figure out how to spell it first.” Nigel chuckled.

Brian pouted. “V-E—”

“Wrong,” he interrupted. Brian was ready to protest when Nigel kissed his forehead. Fair. He conceded. Sinking into the warmth of Nigel's lips, the tickle of his stubble against Brian’s forehead, the way his fingers traced along his shoulder blades, was so much more satisfying.

A comfortable silence passed back over them. Brian could have sworn they were breathing in time, their hearts beating to the same rhythm. And he felt...content. Faulkner, Austin, Nabokov; he doubted any of them could find the words to describe how his body seemed to know Nigel’s so intimately, and how Nigel seemed to see into him with just as much ease. Perhaps that was what made dropping the matter seem so simple. There would be another time to talk, Nigel would still be there. Somehow, it felt like he always had been. “Just...promise me you’ll stay safe, alright?”

Nigel pressed his nose against his scalp, kissed the top of his head tenderly. He shivered, feeling safe and sound, and hoping he did even half as much for the man who held so much of his heart. Nigel had found a way to seep into every part of him, Brian thought. His very essence formed the space between his cells, something warm to hold onto even in the coldest waters. He shifted his body, leaning down to whisper in Brian’s ear. “For you, love? Anything.”

* * *

The thing with mild to moderate ADHD was that it made working in complete silence near impossible. The everyday sounds of Edith walking from her office to the lounge to get her fourth cup of coffee, or Mark's muffled arguments with his wife over the phone and down the hallway became as distracting as a theoretical full orchestra rehearsing before his desk. White noise, as such, was essential if he was going to get anything graded, and for that Brian tended to find himself grateful for the humming of the fluorescent lights above. The rest of the department could complain all they wanted, but their monotonous drone was the only thing that drowned out all the rest most days.

They weren't doing him a damn bit of good right now.

Brian rubbed his brow as he reread the same line in an extremely uninspired essay on Chaucer for the third time, and reminded himself  _ again _ that he  _ did _ like his freshman class. But mostly, he fought the urge to check his phone. Again. If anything had changed, if anyone had  _ called _ , he would have heard the overzealous skidding of plastic and infuriation vibrating across his desk. 

He picked it up anyway. The chain of texts the screen opened to remained unchanged. Brian thumbed through the thread again, as though reading his messages for a twelfth time would change their words. The series of icons and pixels mocked him for his efforts.

_ Nigel: 11:15 AM - [video message, a recording of a new song he was writing. It was something abstract, about putting together the best and worst parts of life to create a complete and beautiful image. Definitely more artsy than what Brian usually listened to, but he found himself drawn to the melody nonetheless.] _

_ Brian: 11:23 AM - That’s...really beautiful. Sharing it with the rest of the band today? _

_ Nigel: 11:25 AM - Next time. We’ve only got till 2 to play and still have to work out our new setlist _

_ Brian: 11:31 AM - Still planning your intervention today? _

_ Nigel: 11:39 AM - It’s not an intervention love, just a conversation. _

_ Nigel: 11:40 AM - And yes _

_ Brian: 11:49 AM - Good luck, call me after? _

_ Nigel: 11:54 AM - Aye love, you’ll get your proof of life. Dinner at my place tonight? _

_ Brian: 11:58 AM - Sounds great, I’ll bring wine. _

  
  


_ Nigel: 12:30 PM - Kyle seems mostly with us today, fingers crossed _

_ Brian: 3:12 PM - So how’d it go? _

_ Brian: 3:15 PM - Want me to come over early? _

_ Brian: 3:49 PM - Nigel? _

_ [4:03 PM - Outbound Call - Unanswered] _

_ [4:21 PM - Outbound Call - Unanswered] _

_ Brian: 4:24 PM - Nigel? Are you alright? _

_ Brian: 4:30 PM - Sorry, I'm really not trying to hound you. I hope it went well. _

_ [5:15 PM - Outbound Call - Unanswered] _

_ Brian: 5:19 PM - I’ll be at your apartment around 7:30. If there’s anything you need, I’m here.  _

_ Brian: 5:22 PM - I love you _

It was almost 5:45, and he still had yet to hear back.

Rationally, Brian knew everything was fine. The reception at the studio Nigel and his band rented for practice was shoddy at best, and he was staging an  _ intervention _ for crying out loud. On the long list of most time consuming conversations, he figured the only topics that beat  _ ‘so I think you’re on drugs and you need help’ _ were  _ ‘so your father and I are getting divorced and it’s not your fault but it definitely is’ _ and  _ ‘so I haven’t prepared to defend my thesis at all but I’m going to wing it and hope you take pity on me’ _ . The discussion probably just went on long, and it ended with Kyle and Nigel crying over a moment of mutual understanding and support, and Nigel driving him to the nearest rehab hospital but forgetting his phone in the shuffle, just like he'd somehow managed to forget his guitar a dozen times before. Or Nigel's phone had died, and he was already halfway back to his apartment, with hurried false promises of  _ "I'll do better, I'm done for good this time" _ ringing in his ears and all he wanted to do was lie down and pretend he believed it. Hell, maybe he was at Rachel's apartment, her roommate giving them all the space they needed as they split a bottle of wine and tried to figure out what to do next, as he weighed their responsibility for the band against his fear for his friend's safety, lamenting into his glass that  _ "maybe we can fix him. 'Cause he's really not okay, and he just doesn't care".  _ There were dozens of perfectly good reasons for Nigel to not get back to him yet, and Brian—he just needed to get over himself.

Twelve mediocre pages on how Chaucer's travels shaped the Canterbury Tales—made doubly irritating by the author's attitude that this was somehow a groundbreaking revelation—stared up at him. Twelve poorly structured, double spaced pages and his own insistence on putting more effort into grading than his student was capable of putting into writing were all that were keeping him from running back to his car. From racing to the apartment where he knew Nigel was, completely fine but exhausted. Where he had, in all likelihood, collapsed in a weary heap on his well worn leather sofa and under the quilt his mother had made for him when he left England, seeking whatever comfort he could but too afraid to ask for more.

Brian exhaled. He shoved his phone in his pocket and went to get his favorite brown jacket from the hook by the door. Fuck it. If Jeremiah didn't care about his grade then neither did he.

* * *

Traffic may have been at it's rush hour peak, but Brian's Boston-bred sensibilities were still able to get him off campus and in front of Nigel's building in under forty minutes with only one near-casualty. If it weren't for the overabundance of paper ghosts in windows and signs proclaiming pumpkin spice everything, he would have called it a Christmas Miracle.

The apartment complex Nigel called home wasn't what anyone would call impressive. It was clean, and it's location right outside the city proper afforded it the space for a few oak trees to dot the grounds around it, but the low-rise brick face and ivy encroaching the iron wrought balcony railings spoke of comfort, not class. A few kids from the building ran around the small green space that served as the building's lawn, running in circles and piling leaves together and jumping into said piles just to start again, their parents likely watching from some window with a mug of coffee in hand and gratitude for having five minutes of quiet. It was just about the furthest thing Brian could imagine from the noble estates Nigel was raised in, and likely what he would have chosen even if he hadn't been completely cut off by his father and could afford some luxury high-rise downtown. But most importantly, it didn't have a security gate, a doorman, or any other barrier that might have delayed him from reaching the door to unit 331 by even a little.

He forced himself not to race up the stairs, a canvas bag carrying an acceptable Cabernet he'd grabbed from the grocery near his office swinging at his side. He hadn't seen Nigel's bike in it's usual spot out front, but that hardly meant anything. Sometimes he parked out back, especially if he'd had a long day and needed to unwind along the long way back. The narrow beige hallways of floor three opened to him, Nigel's unit just three doors down and to the left, marked with a doormat proclaiming  _ 'Croeso' _ and a fake plant hiding a key he hoped like hell he didn't need. Brian checked his phone; 6:38, no new messages, no missed calls. No guarantee Nigel was even home, but—no bad news either. He’d probably passed out one he crossed the threshold, too exhausted to even light his favorite scented candles upon return. Brian exhaled. He knocked.

"Hey! It's—ah, it's me, I'm early. " Brian cringed, his attempt at sounding something less than frantic and worried failing. He waited a moment for—for the tell tale sound of old floorboards creaking as Nigel made his way to his ceramic key dish, of Nigel’s half-conscious groaning from his sofa, of the crooning tones of Florence Welch playing throughout the living room, signaling that his mood was catastrophically sorrowful and he needed ice cream and wine ASAP. No such sound came.

"Nigel?"

He was about to knock again, about to reach towards the leaves of the plastic ficus, when his phone finally rang. Relief flooded Brian’s veins like cool rain on hot asphalt, little puffs of steam making a show of the change that was occurring. His shoulders released a tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying . Brian sighed, glancing down as he went to swipe upwards, only—it wasn’t Nigel’s picture showing up on his  _ call incoming _ screen.

“Rachel? What’s up?” he managed, the edges of panic only just bleeding into his voice. Rachel, on the contrary, made no such attempts.

“Hey hey, not much, please tell me Nigel’s with you.” She rushed. Her breaths were deliberate, deep; a perfect cadence of 4-7-8 that he had taught Nigel, and Nigel had passed on to her. A pit formed in his stomach on the seven, and settled in his core when she exhaled.

“No, I’m...is everything alright?” Though he tried to keep his tone level, a chill ran down his spine. It was a pointless question, Brian thought. He already knew everything wasn’t. 

“I don’t know, I just—” Rachel stammered, exhaling sharply. “I asked him to call me when he got home, you know, make sure he wasn’t too shaken up? Only he’s sort of been ignoring my calls for the last three hours, so—I assumed he left his phone at the studio, only it’s not here. But, um, but his Bonneville still is.”

The pit that had made Brian’s body its home dropped out entirely, shattering on the ground in so many pieces. It broke as though it were something small, and fragile, and faint. Like glass. Like faith. 

He wouldn’t remember telling Rachel he’d call her back later, or hanging up. Nor pushing aside the array of multicolored stones at the base of the ceramic pot, exposing Nigel’s fortunately-not-missing house key. The hoarseness of his throat was the only indicator that he’d been calling, screaming, for Nigel to come out, like he was hiding just around the corner or under the table or behind the couch and this was all an ill-planned game designed to fuck with him. His phone was the only indicator hours had passed when his sense of awareness returned, and Brian found himself sitting on Nigel’s bed, clutching that damned wool coat he’d been wearing outside the bookstore and staring at the doorway as though he might materialize any minute.

The sun was long gone, the bedroom and it’s many houseplants bathed in the cool blue of twilight. A lump grew in Brian’s throat, quite content to stay. His body was on autopilot when he lifted his phone, dialed a three digit sequence he’d managed to go his entire life never needing before. The voice on the other end of the line was a murmur, his mind too encased in fog to process the words, but his understanding was irrelevant. Brian doubted anyone would actually need to listen to know what was being asked.

“Hi,” he croaked, hardly recognizing his own voice. “I...I need to report a missing person.”

* * *

"Alright, let's just run through this one more time."

"What, the first five times weren't enough? I'm pretty sure I've already told you everything I know, why don't you try  _ doing your damn job _ and  _ finding him _ ?"

Detective Muldoon glanced over the manila folder folder before him. He was a man who carried himself with years of knowledge and experience, but instead of seeming seasoned he just looked tired. The stress lines of his face deepened, and Brian wanted to throw his shitty cup of shitty precinct coffee at the officer's shitty forehead. To his left sat his partner, a younger officer who was either always quietly observing everyone and filing away their weaknesses for later use, or who just didn’t care about anything. Needless to say, she was harder to read. Brian gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles going white, but at least he had something to focus on other than wanting to scream. Everything they needed to know was already in front of him, in plain black and white ink. Nigel Cooper, 28, black hair and hazel eyes, last seen in a white t-shirt and blue flannel jacket just off Pandora Street talking with Kyle Vaughn, also missing, no tattoos or piercings, and  _ no _ , Brian  _ hadn't _ heard anything from him, if he had then they wouldn't _ be having this conversation, would they? _

Three days had gone by already. They still didn't have a single lead, and Brian was desperately trying to keep from breaking down completely.

He’d forced himself to stop reading up on missing persons investigative procedures sometime last night. Between the advice to call local hospitals, homeless shelters,  _ morgues _ , and the constant reminders that if you didn’t find any solid threads to follow within the first 48 hours, well. There was only so long any person could spend tugging at their hair and trying not to hyperventilate. For a moment, he had considered bringing it up the next time he saw his therapist, going back onto something for his resurging anxiety, but no. This was something that needed to be felt. The grey concrete walls of the interview room felt more and more suffocating by the minute.

Muldoon cleared his throat, drawing Brian’s attention back from their warped reflections on the metal table. “Look, I get it. It’s frustrating, I know, but we still can’t even say for sure that he’s actually missing.”

“Yeah, uh-huh, except that he’s, you know,  _ actually fucking missing _ .”

As a whole, modern fantasy was far from Brian’s favorite genre. It was all the same boring, trope-laden wish fulfillment wrapped up with a different magic school or vampire boyfriend time and time again. Derivative was the nicest word he could come up with for it. But in that moment, Brian truly and fundamentally understood it’s appeal, as he imagined for a moment that with a twist of his hands he could send the officer flying back, blast him through the wall and tell him to fuck off and find Nigel himself. With any luck, the look he was giving Muldoon covered about half of his sentiments. As it was, he seemed pretty unphased, unfortunately.

“It’s not against the law to not want to come home.” He said it plainly, like it was an explanation that made any sense, like Brian was wasting his time and just needed to get over this. Like he had any clue what he was talking about, like Nigel wasn’t the sort of person who had confessed to him that he still sent Christmas cards to every single one of the relatives who had disowned him just because  _ ‘It feels like the right thing to do love, you know? Sure, they’ll likely all be tossed before they’re even opened, but. I don’t have to let their cruelty define what I do.’  _ Like the best person who had ever walked into his life wasn’t even worth searching for.

Brian wasn’t sure what he was about to tell Muldoon. Maybe that if this was how he was going to treat this, that he should stop pretending to be a detective and go work at a fucking Olive Garden or something, or maybe more succinctly just where he could shove it. Probably the latter. But before he could say something too inflammatory and get his case thrown out, along with himself, they were both interrupted by the second officer in the room finally looking up from her own file.

“Hey, Bill, how about you let me take this one for a bit?” The two shared a series of looks that Brian wasn’t going to even attempt to decipher, but they ended with Muldoon’s face relaxing fractionally, before he nodded. He left without ceremony or another word, his mind clearly already somewhere else. Maybe another case, maybe his fucking grocery list. Brian doubted it mattered.

Once the door closed behind him, she fixed her gaze firmly on Brian. It cut through him like nothing else had been able through the fog that had been his week, and Brian found himself immediately regretting ever thinking she was ever less than three steps ahead of anyone.

She pushed her wild curls behind her ear. When Nigel performed that same motion, it always carried unease with it, but on her it screamed precision, focus. With a start, Brian realized he was staring. He blinked and turned his attention back towards the photos and statements she’d fanned out between them.

“Bill’s not exactly one for bedside manner,” she started, “but, he’s not exactly wrong. There’s no doubt your partner is missing, at least. Hell if even half these statements are true he’s definitely not the type to bail without warning. Or a damn good reason.”

“Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”

Brian looked back at the detective like the lifeline she was, like she maybe wouldn’t say something that would crush him. It figured that luck wouldn’t be on his side. She sighed.

“Because as things stand, we can’t prove that Mr. Cooper’s disappearance is involuntary. No blood at his last known location, no signs of struggle, no CCTV footage to suggest he was taken against his will? Sure, we don’t have any credit card transactions to follow him by, but he could be using cash, and—without any concrete signs of foul play, our hands are pretty tied. Without a body, it's kind of hard to prove there was a crime, you know?”

His stomach clenched. He stared at his hands, hoping the metaphorical straws he so desperately needed to grasp onto would materialize. “So basically, there’s nothing you can do?”

“Other than file paperwork...yeah. Basically.” She replied, defeated. Brian’s breaths were starting to come heavier. The room drew smaller, but never small enough to crush the enormity of his dread.

“And you’ve looked under—”

“Yes, we’re also running searches for Nigel Bexley.”

“What about—”

“I can’t share any specific details, this is still an open investigation. But if you’re going to ask about ransoms again, I’m pretty sure that any demands that might be sent to British aristocrats are pretty far out of our jurisdiction.”

“Alright, what about Kyle? The guy he was last seen with? Have you been able to find him?"

It was apparent that she was exasperated, though with Brian, the case, or the system, was hard to determine. Brian suspected her target was himself, but his therapist would likely remind him that that was an intrusive thought, and inherently unreliable. She exhaled. “Again, I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of an open investigation.”

When he was sixteen, Brian and his dad had flown across the country for a father-son fishing trip at a cabin off Lake Washington. Near the top of their plane’s ascent, his eardrum has ruptured, leaving him vertigo-ridden and in pain for the rest of the flight. Needless to say, it had been a pretty miserable vacation. But aside from the spinning and the drainage and his father’s insistence on trying to catch some walleye anyways and the shouting match that had ensued, the most unnerving part of the experience had been the two weeks of near silence on his right hemisphere. The silence that fell over the interview room felt like being trapped in his sixteen-year-old injured body all over again. Anxious and unsure and happy to even take the tinnitus again if it meant having some sound, some reminder of reality.

He stared at his reflection again, wondering which was more distorted.

"Is...is there anything else I can give you? Anything?" He pleaded. Why, he couldn’t say. Her tired frown and the rings under her eyes answered louder than any words could. 

So.

Brian slid his chair back, the steel legs grating against the floor with a horrid sound he could feel in his teeth. He welcomed it with open arms. When he stood, it felt like moving through molasses. “I’ll just…” he trailed off. He’d just  _ what? _ Hire a PI? Track down every person Nigel had talked to up to and including his favorite barista and interrogate them himself? Crawl in a hole and hope this either all turned out to be a terrible dream or he just died? “I’ll go...sorry for wasting your time.” 

He didn’t look the officer in the eye as he headed for the door. There didn’t seem to be a point. She was right, and he hated himself for agreeing. They didn’t have the grounds for a full investigation, and Brian had to face the facts. He was on his own for this one.

Brian had made it halfway to the door of the West Precinct when he heard the interview room door open behind him, followed by a command for someone to wait, the incoming pounding of her boots making it clear who she was calling to. He froze, had he made a mistake? This was just an interview, he was free to leave whenever he wanted. Unless; was he a suspect? Was this an interrogation? The panic died as quickly as it had been born. The detective came across as someone who could and  _ would  _ kick his ass without hesitation. If that had been the case, he never would have made it out of his chair. He turned around.

The officer paused, and glanced up and down the hall. Whatever she’d seen, she clearly wasn’t happy with, because the next thing Brian knew she grabbed his shoulder and pulled him down another aisle, in the opposite direction of the exit, and the bustling of people coming in and out of conferences and filing reports. He would have considered protesting, but she looked like business personified, and if there was even half a percent of a chance she could help, well. This wasn’t a gift horse he planned on pissing off without a good reason.

Once she was convinced they were far enough from—prying eyes, eavesdroppers, witnesses, all of the above? She pushed a card against his chest, then glanced down the hall once more.

“Look, I’m pretty sure you’ve already figured this out, but this department isn’t going to find your guy. It’s nothing personal, just that compared to the rest of the shit coming in, this case is bottom of the barrel priority.” She spoke in rushed tones, leaving no room for Brian to engage. He fidgeted with the card in his hands for lack of space to express any concerns of his own.

“Typically, I wouldn’t get worked up about this. On a first glance Bill’s one hundred percent right to not care about this case, but. I’ve just...I’ve got a feeling something more is going on here, and I’ve got some contacts I might be able to get some more info from.”

Brian blinked. He glanced down at—it was her business card.  _ Sam Cunningham, West Vancouver Police Department, _ with her office contact crossed out and what he assumed was her cell number written over the lines in red ink. He turned the card over, half expecting the numbers and letters to disappear along with this thread of hope that he very much suspected would  _ not _ be going through official channels. “So you’re...what, you’re taking this on based on—a hunch?”

The detective—Sam, shrugged. “My gut hasn’t been wrong yet.” She said with crushing finality. At least she was honest.

“Call me if you think of anything else. Wait at least two minutes before following me out of here, and if someone asks what you’re doing here—say you got lost looking for the bathroom or something.”

Brian raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“People are dumb, happens all the time.” Sam replied coolly. “Anyways. I can’t promise you anything, this case is a long shot. But the least we can do is try, right?” He nodded dumbly. It was about the only response he could settle on, given the emotional whiplash of the last ten minutes. Fortunately, if the way she turned on her heel was anything to go by, Sam wasn’t exactly looking for a reply.

“Remember,” she called over her shoulder, “two minutes. Minimum.”

The precinct wasn’t busy, but it was lively enough that her footsteps became indistinguishable from the clamor of bodies reporting crimes and reporting for bail and reporting to meetings. He waited probably closer to five, thumbing the card over and over,  _ ‘this case is a long shot’  _ an unwelcome loop playing through his thoughts, locked in his mind like the hook of some repetitive pop song.

No one else stopped him on his way to the door. He was half grateful for the solitude, and just as disheartened that Nigel’s disappearance truly rated so low. But still,  _ ‘the least we can do is try, right?’ _

It was a start.

* * *

Nothing in this life was more unfair than time herself. She stood just outside your periphery, cloaked in mystery and sounding a timeless march that promised to not only one day consume you, but to render everything you had ever accomplished meaningless. It was a promise she had never failed to keep.

The head of the English department had called him. A natural reaction to a professor canceling an entire week's worth of classes, sure, but unexpected nonetheless. Brian had been as comfortably hunched over his desk at home in the tightest ball he could manage as was possible. He'd been writing letters to local newspapers and neighborhood journals, asking if any of them would be willing to publish his simple inquiry of  _ "have you seen this man?" _ He'd been writing letters to an estranged family across the ocean that he would never send. Letters pleading for answers if they had any and help if they didn't. He'd been writing letters to a sister he needed now, letters he could burn in the fireplace and lie to himself that maybe they were being read.

_ Dear Julia, how are the cats? _

_ Dear Julia, I am entirely lost _ .

The ringing had made him jump, streaking the line of the 't' across the page, which—fair, that was on him for not writing emails, like a person. They'd exchanged pleasantries for maybe ten seconds when she made her intentions known.

"Look, Brian," she'd said in a tone that might have been soothing were it not drenched in cold professionalism. "I can only imagine how difficult this time has been for you. The entire team has you in our thoughts. I just need to know, do you have an idea when you'll be back with us? I can probably get Dr. Hilson to cover the graduate class for now but if you're going to be out for more than a few weeks we'll need to find another solution."

He'd gone silent, before awkwardly promising to let her know in the next couple of days, hanging up, and staring at the flickering embers in the hearth, too tired to attempt to stoke them into anything.

That night, he’d awoken more times than he cared to count, half convinced he could feel Nigel breathing against the back of his neck. Of course, each time he'd opened his eyes, he'd been painfully alone. 

When he’d met with Rachel over coffee, she’d been kind enough not to comment on the rings under his eyes and he’d been kind enough not to mention hers. It was a nearly silent affair, the chatter of patrons stepping past their booth and the clinking of spoons all the conversation they could muster. Nigel used to meet him here, back when they’d first started dating. He’d proclaimed the local café as serving the best blueberry scone on this side of the Atlantic—he’d laughed like it was something genuinely funny when Brian asked  _ “okay, but what about the Pacific?” _ He’d first wondered what it would feel like to kiss him, to memorize the taste of his skin, in the corner booth tucked behind a bulletin board promoting local macramé artists and school book drives alike. He’d first learned that taste not twenty minutes later on the front steps, right under an infernal bell that let every new guest become an intruder to the space they had created. In that moment he’d never heard a more beautiful sound. Nigel was absolutely burned into every crevice of this place, possibly every crevice of his life. Brian knew that he couldn’t let the embers be all that was left. Even if they had nowhere to go from, Nigel would have moved oceans for them. The least they could do was push a few officers and coordinate where to post some flyers. Rachel’s eyes darted back and forth and back again, maintaining a white knuckle grip on her mug. 

The journal he’d been filling with notes from days past; records of conversations with Detective Cunningham, hastily jotted timestamps from people who  _ might _ have seen Nigel before he disappeared, pages of handwritten lyrics he’d left at Brian’s apartment, pages Brian knew would contain no clues but he hoped against hope they  _ might _ , all sat in the bottom of his messenger bag, untouched. Rachel made no such move to share any journals she might have brought along with her either. After another ten minutes of averted eye contact and nearly jumping to his feet every time anyone tall and wearing a black coat passed by the window, Brian finally found his tongue.

"So, um. How have you been holding up?"

"Fucking  _ great _ ,' she snapped, setting her coffee down with more force than necessary. Brian startled. The only time he'd heard Rachel swear before was when the Canucks lost to the Flames last month. She looked at the mug before her like she was offended it didn’t contain something stronger. "You know, I told him to come with me, to just forget about it. Let him ruin his life, right? But  _ no, _ Nigel just had to be the hero again, and look what it got him."

He blinked. Brian had heard that anger before, in a mother screaming _"she'd still be here if_ _you'd have just called an Uber"_ and a father crying back _"you think I don't know that?"_ It had left him curled under the covers of his childhood bedroom, counting down the days until he flew back out to his dorm and could grieve properly. Now, it just left him sad. Rachel didn't deserve to live with that rage, not after everything. "You don't mean that…"

"What if I do?" She spat back. Her eyes flash with crystal blue rage—no, wait. They were black, always had been. Where had that come from? She continued. "I mean, sure, I didn't think Kyle was actually  _ dangerous _ , but hey. I've been wrong before."

The venom in her voice, the way it darkened as she spoke left him bristled. He hoped she wasn’t going where he feared she was with this; the thought had crossed his mind too, but. Kyle was undoubtedly dangerous, and had the history to prove it. But Nigel had said it himself, he’d seemed sober. It was one thing to be found with a weapon while under the influence and probably having some sort of legitimate breakdown, and another to suggest that—Brian stopped the thought in its tracks. He couldn’t believe that Kyle had  _ actually  _ hurt Nigel, he couldn’t. Once he stepped down that path, it would only be a few steps before he gave up on ever finding him again.

His index finger began tapping on the table, for want of something to do. Brian absently considered that between his growing twitchiness and his generally worsening focus, now may not have been the best time to start cancelling appointments with Dr. King. But the deed was done, and when the shit inevitably hit the fan, well. That's what emergency appointments were for.

He opted for playing dumb. "Sorry, I don't really follow—what's Kyle got to do with this?"

The look she gave him was painfully reminiscent of the one he wanted to give half his freshman students when they asked for an extension on any paper because English wasn’t a real class anyways; incredulity, with just a touch of sadness that someone could be so naïve. "Really? Your boyfriend, my  _ best friend _ , goes missing the day he decides one mediocre bass player who we could replace in twenty minutes with a  _ craigslist ad _ needs a 'come to Jesus' moment, and then said bassist has the nerve to go AWOL? It raises a couple of red flags."

“Kyle disappears all the time, it’s probably been the most normal part of this week.”

“I know, always made scheduling practice time a pain. But he also isn’t even updating his shitty Instagram meme account.”

“So what? You think he did it?”

“You  _ don’t?” _ She was practically yelling now, drawing the attention of several local students and bike couriers and people who had given up on not being late to their office jobs, all just trying to get a decent cup before moving on with their days.

Regardless, that was...actually slightly distressing. But it didn’t actually  _ mean  _ anything, she  _ had  _ to know that. Only, did she? Did  _ he? _ It wasn’t like any better theories had presented themselves. Delusions were defined by their belief despite all contradictory evidence, but could something be a delusion without something to point out it’s irrationality?

There was a fire in her eyes, hardening her expression to the point of stone. He’d seen it once before. Back in July, a Thursday night at 3 AM. He’d driven Nigel through the blocks surrounding her home, loop after loop, till they found her wandering down the sidewalk, bruised and barefoot, sobbing  _ ‘I just need to apologize, maybe he’ll take me back’;  _ over and over into Nigel’s shoulder. He’d seen that anger hours later, as he glimpsed through the window of an urgent care on his way to a lonely vending machine at the end of the hall. Nigel had been beside her, muttering the sorts of comforts that always seemed to sound unnatural and false coming from any lips that weren’t his. She’d stared at her lap the whole time, that fire turned in on herself for reasons he’d never pretend to understand.

“Rachel, I—” He  _ what? _ Understood where she was coming from? Wished she hadn’t been hurt so badly she always believed the worst? Also half believed that someone Nigel considered a fucking  _ friend _ was capable of—of lashing out when someone was genuinely trying to help him, and maybe hurt them badly enough that he’d panic and chain them up in his basement instead of risking the authorities finding out and sending him to prison, which with his record might be a possibility, only to realize that he’d seriously fucked up but by then the game would have run on too long and the only option he’d have left would be to drive into Washington with Nigel in the trunk and drop him into the Pacific Ocean?

Brian took a breath. He was catastrophizing, and panic wasn’t going to help anyone. The pause lasted maybe a second. It was more than long enough for Rachel to snap.

“If we were going to find him, there would have been  _ something  _ to find by now, so what's the fucking point? He’s gone, Brian. The sooner you catch up to me, the better."

She’d stormed out seconds later, muttering something under her breath Brian hadn’t processed. He’d barely processed her getting up. He couldn’t remember any of his trek home. Just feeling angry, hurt, like all the best parts of himself had been scooped from his chest and left on the asphalt for the vultures. Nigel’s cardigan, a soft forest green knit Brian had taken from his apartment that still held some of his scent, lay pooled by the feet of his sofa. He could have sworn he’d left it draped over the back but—he could have sworn a lot of things. A piece of fallen fabric hardly seemed worth the worry. He curled onto the faded cushions and pressed the garment to his face, inhaled the fading echoes of cedar and the incense he liked to burn while doing yoga in his living room.

It was a hollow substitute, but at least they were a matched set.

He sleeps about as well that night too.

Time passed him like a stream, and he was an immovable stone, cursed to be slowly eroded away by her tide. He called the university with promises to return by mid-November and called international numbers that always went unanswered and called hospitals praying he found something and called morgues praying he didn't. His life was becoming an endless cycle of dial- learn nothing-repeat. After a somewhat harrowing conversation with the Detective— _ 'I might have a sighting, some security footage from—never mind that doesn't matter. Anyways, we can't be one hundred percent sure it's him. The recording isn't entirely clear, and there must have been something wrong with the camera because one second he's there, then he just—vanishes. But he's the right height and complexion, so. It was recorded yesterday, he's still in town. I'll be scoping out the neighborhood tonight'— _ Brian hit the wall. There were only so many hours he could spend grasping at straws. He needed to get out.

It didn’t take him long to stumble to the nearest bar, as was the primary benefit of living within commuting distance of any university. Unfortunately, said bar was also packed. Despite his phone having been glued to his hand all day, he had somehow completely failed to notice that it was Friday. And nearing midnight. Any other day, he would have turned on his heel, hid in his apartment with a bottle of wine and Adele playing loudly enough that he'd undoubtedly face a noise complaint, but at least no one would hear his sobbing. Only, tonight he needed something stronger, and he'd left his vinyl copy of 21 at Nigel's a month ago anyways.

The crowd was, loathe as he was to admit it, probably for the best. Whether he had stepped out to find a time and date deemed socially acceptable for public intoxication, or a sunlit Wednesday morning, Brian wasn’t leaving this bar until he was absolutely shit faced. 

_ He's still in town. I'll be scoping out the neighborhood tonight.  _ Bullshit. Maybe she  _ had _ seen something, maybe her contact had pulled through, but Nigel wasn’t just walking around some undetermined neighborhood. He would have called. He would have come home. He would have done  _ something _ . Unless—shit, what if he couldn't? Brian collapsed into a seat at the far end of the bar; close enough for the bartender to notice him, and far enough from any distinct groups to avoid anyone trying to pull him into any sort of conversation. He didn't have the energy, physical or emotional, to go down that rabbit hole. Tomorrow.

After a few moments of fidgeting, realizing he’d stepped out without even grabbing a jacket—that he didn’t really remember walking here, the barkeep turned and acknowledged him with a sharp nod. Brian shrugged it off. It was what it was, and with any luck he wouldn't remember forgetting that either.

“What can I get you?” the bartender—Derrick, according to his nametag, shouted over the chatter of the room. Brian flicked his gaze to the backbar for a moment.

“What gins do you have?”

“Bombay, Tanqueray—”

“Let’s go with that, neat.” He called back. Derrick nodded, then turned away to procure the green glass bottle from its home on the shelf. Brian didn’t go to bars often. There had been a few pub crawls in Boston where he’d gotten blackout drunk, and a solo venture or two, but those had all been times marked by stress; mid terms, finals, a particularly bad breakup with the girlfriend he’d thought he would marry at the time. So when he did, he appreciated that their staff didn’t seem to mind his desire to skip smalltalk and just get his order in. They were busy enough anyways, and he Brian wasn’t interested in testing their patience by questioning if the media stereotype that bartenders were just therapists with better refreshments was true.

Derrick returned with his glass, gently slid across the counter and perfectly centered on its napkin, the crystal clear liquid reflecting all the light around and above it within its shallow two ounce depths. He admired it for about three seconds before downing the damn thing.

“You alright?” Derrick asked—oh, he was still standing there. Brian grimaced, the liquor running down his throat like a horse made of flame. “No, not really,” He cracked. “Just fuck me up man.”

He nodded and turned back. Marching orders received, loud and clear. This was, undoubtedly, not his first rodeo.

The drinks kept coming; groups of friends came and went, and he drank. A bachelorette party in a corner booth decided that a public bar was a  _ great _ place to reveal the frankly obscene dildo they’d bought for the bride, and he drank. A group of fraternity bros attempted to start an impromptu sing along of _ “Oh Canada” _ , but they were too inebriated to remember the words, and he drank. Brian suspected after the third one, maybe the fourth, Derrick—was Derrick still on shift? Whatever, had swapped them out for water. And like—good for him, practicing bar safety and looking out for him. But also. Fuck Derrick. 

Still, the lights above him had gone just the right amount of fuzzy and every sound in the crowded room was just too far away, so. Nevermind, good job Derrick. Or maybe he was just feeling generous because at some point his drinks switched back to gin. Unless there was a shift change and he hadn't noticed. Stranger things had happened. 

_ The recording isn't entirely clear, and there must have been something wrong with the camera because one second he's there, then he just—vanishes. _ He downs another glass.

_ "Really? He goes missing the day he decides one mediocre bass player needs a 'come to Jesus' moment, and then said bassist has the nerve to go AWOL? It raises a couple of red flags." _ He flags down the bartender—definitely not Derrick anymore, for another.

Maybe that was why he didn't really process the first time the patron beside him nudged his arm. Or the second. The third, where he leaned close enough that Brian could feel the heat of his breath on the shell of his ear, was a little harder to miss.

"Yeah, it's probably for the best you didn't just hear me. That last line was  _ terrible _ ."

Brian's head snapped up, drawing his attention towards the reasonably attractive pretty-type who had settled next to him. If he was out drinking with any group, he’d apparently separated from them, in favor of—Brian looked the other way to make sure the new guy hadn’t been practically whispering to someone else. Nope, still alone.

"I'm Jackson." Hot prep continued, with a tilt of his mostly-full IPA in Brian's direction. He returned the gesture with his mostly-empty yeah-definitely-water-again and a curt "Brian."

Hot-prep— _ Jackson _ , grinned. "So, you look like you're having a rough night. How about I get you out of here? I'm pretty sure I know a few tricks that'll make it better."

"Oh, um, I—" He hoped the lights were dim enough to cover his flush. Why was he even getting worked up over this guy? Frankly he seemed like a pretentious try-hard, with his perfectly styled hair and pocket square. He gave Jackson another once over, in case he'd missed something, and the room spun from that tiny nod alone. Ah, that was why. "I've got a boyfriend actually. I'm flattered though—um, thanks." He slurred.

"Ah, shame.  _ So _ , is he here with you tonight?"

Brian stilled. His head pounded in time with the increased pressure in his chest. Bodies were, he decided, the absolute worst; setting off stress responses and preparing him to flee from scenes he couldn't remember how to walk away from. It was a painfully predictable question, and one he hadn't even realized he was dreading. ‘ _ Of course he’s not here’ _ he wanted to scream,  _ ‘if he was, do you think I would be at some shitty crowded bar, trapped in a mass of bodies and racking up the most absurd bill for what amounts to a bottle I could have bought at any Total Wine and drank at home?’  _ And what gave him the nerve to ask anyways? Brian felt cold. What was the social protocol for answering deceptively loaded questions without making a scene? Lie? He’d gone quiet too long for that to be convincing. Look the questioning party in the eye and tell them  _ ‘actually, he’s missing and I don’t even know if he’s alive right now’ _ , just to revel in the look on their face when they realized how much they regretted asking? Too petty, and  _ fuck _ . Why did this guy deserve to be brought into the story? Brian slumped forward. The flash of adrenaline left his body as soon as it had arisen. He was just...tired. 

"He's... no, he's not," his treacherous tongue slipped out. 

From the rim of his glass, Jackson scoffed. "Really? His loss, there's no way I'd leave a guy as hot as you out drinking alone."

His grip tightened on his empty glass. This absolute  _ fucker _ , where did he get off— no, he didn’t have the fucking  _ right _ to judge, to say  _ anything. _ Brian wanted to scream—at Jackson, at the void, at himself. He wanted to storm into whatever neighborhood Sam was investigating and tear his way through every last back alley and basement until he found  _ something _ . He wanted to crash through whatever motel or rehab or drug den Kyle was holed up in and demand any answer that _ wasn’t _ that Nigel was hurt, or worse—

He wanted to not be alone with his thoughts.

Brian sized him up again. It would be wrong to say he bore any resemblance to Nigel; jaw too square and shoulders too broad, and entirely the wrong attitude. He was dressed all wrong, a button up and vest as opposed to the soft cardigans and vintage jeans Nigel favored when offstage or the leather pants and tank tops he favored when on. And there was something obscenely arrogant, cocky, about the way he watched Brian. His eyes were the wrong color, his hair too short, but the shade was dark enough and at least he was tall.

He was going to hate himself for this later. But fuck it, that was tomorrow Brian’s problem.

"I changed my mind. How far to your place?

The answer was, fortunately, not far. Walking distance even. They only made it a block and a half before Brian found himself pressed against a brick alleyway, a strong, solid thigh slotted between his legs and teeth and tongue taking him apart. Jackson bit at his lower lip and pressed further into his mouth when he gasped, his grip in Brian’s hair unforgiving. He’s grappling for purchase against Jackson’s shoulders, the muscles of his back tensing under his hands. He’s gasping into the air, watching his breath float away in puffs of condensation while teeth trail along the column of his throat, leaving marks that he isn’t sure he’ll bother to cover up. He’s grinding down against that strong, firm thigh without realizing what his body is doing.

It was all wrong. 

Jackson pulled his hair further back, baring Brian’s throat fully before their lips collided again, quick and filthy. His grip was entirely off; too tight, his fingers tangled in the ends and not clutching the nape of his neck. The way he’s standing too imposing, demanding even, making Brian feel insignificant. He smelled wrong.

Brian's eyes fluttered open and the alley spun. What the hell was he even doing? A wave of nausea hit him and Brian didn’t care if it was from the alcohol or his actions. He wasn’t sure he would be able to tell the difference if he did. He pushed against Jackson’s chest and his  _ stupid fucking pocket square, _ and single point to his arrogant-prep-attitude, at least he stepped back, separating their bodies just enough for Brian to retch into the space between them.

"Jesus, are you okay?" Not-Nigel asked from someplace far away. Brian laughed nervously, a sharp, stilted thing. What a stupid fucking question.

"No, I'm—" he swayed when he tried to push off the wall. The only reason he didn't stumble and fall on his face, breaking his nose and making his appearance as fucked up on the outside as it was in, was Jackson's extended forearms and his reflexive grip on them. Even those, he couldn't pretend were right. It was fucking unfair, how he had keyed in so easily to everything that made Nigel tick; the deceptive strength behind the lean lines of his body, the gently flex and stretched of his hands, ever so delicate, whenever he wrapped up a long writing session, the flutter of his eyelashes against Brian's cheek and the way his abdomen clenched under Brian's hands. Nigel was seared into his brain, his goddamn muscle memory in a way that shouldn't have been fucking  _ possible _ , but here he was. Living, suffering proof.

He stared down at the puddle of bile and half digested bar nuts. God he was drunker than he'd thought if he was willing to touch those. The pool had stopped just shy of those fucking oxfords. They looked like suede. Bitterly, Brian found himself wishing that tall-preppy-and-pretentious had stepped back an inch or two closer.

"I—fuck, this was a mistake, I need—I need to go home.

It didn't sound like Jackson had any protests as he half staggered, half rushed out of the alley, and if he had—well, fuck him.

Tears gathered in the corners of Brian's eyes. Tiny yet unwelcome invaders, threatening to pour out and only stop when they'd wrung every last ounce of emotional energy they could from his body. Would anyone stop him if he just stopped? Collapsed to his knees on the sidewalk and let the tide pull him under? Sure, someone might call the police to report a drunken disorderly, but what could they really do about this? About anything?

The question he'd refused to ask himself since Wednesday who-fucking-knew-how-long-ago emerged in his mind, fully formed like Athena from Zeus's skull, adorned in gleaming golden armor and prepared to carve him open where he stood. What if they never found him? What if there was nothing to  _ find? _ Brian slowed. Ignoring the other people on the street, glancing or even fully staring in his direction, was easier than he would have thought, but it figured that you could block out anything if you were busy reteaching your body how to breathe. 

Nigel's disappearance had torn away a piece of himself too. The edges were ragged and raw, bleeding out like a botched field amputation. And that wasn't even the worst part. 

If he asked himself  _ where he would go from here, what was he going to do? _ , The answer came easy. He didn't know. He would be lost, he'd quit his job and move across the continent because this place was too painful, he'd never love again. Each and every one of these feelings was true, but Brian had been here before. He knew they wouldn't last. The scars would be hideous, and phantom pain would sing to him in the dead of the night, but in the end, he would survive. He would move on, no matter how impossible it felt now. Brian wanted to be sick all over. He didn't  _ deserve _ to feel anything but the impossible.

Unfortunately, he didn't get a say, did he? Nothing was more unfair, more of an absolute, unrelenting cunt, than time. Her endless march promised to eventually erase everything. He'd just hoped she would have waited a little longer.

* * *

Three weeks.

It had been three weeks since anyone had seen so much as a single hair of Nigel Cooper. Twenty one days since he'd last heard his voice through any means but old cell phone videos. Five days since his last conversation with Sam, her voice haunted as she spoke;  _ "I...I couldn't find him. It doesn't mean he wasn't there but...God Brian, I hope like hell he wasn't." _ Five days since he'd hesitantly asked what she meant, what she'd seen, and her side of the line had remained silent. Twelve days until he had promised to return to his lecture hall and pretend he was just fine and an undetermined number of days until he could even consider convincing himself that was halfway true.

At least he could count on his ability to find any useful information to be consistent. Rachel had called a few days past, and he’d finally had the energy to not let her go straight to voicemail. Miraculous, considering he hadn’t slept in nearly twenty hours at the time. Their conversation had been even shorter than their meeting at  _ Thanks a Latte _ , a five minute phone call that amounted to Brian confirming he'd hung more flyers in Gastown, Rachel confirming no one had called her with any sightings either, before announcing  _ "I filed a missing persons case for Kyle last week. Cops haven't been able to find him either." _ At the time, he hadn't had much to say beyond  _ "oh" _ and  _ "um, okay. Thanks." _

He wasn’t sure if that was a healthy reaction, but it was undoubtedly healthier than his response when twenty minutes later, halfway through adding a splash of creamer to his coffee, he realized he’d already made one up for Nigel; two spoonfuls of sugar and a pinch of cinnamon, a touch he’d claimed  _ “makes the stuff nearly palatable, I don’t know how you lot drink it black.” _ Brian’s actions hadn’t felt like his own after that. He heard a roar, and was acutely aware it had come from his throat, but the sound hadn’t felt like his. He’d thrown his mug across his tiny kitchen. It hardly mattered, it was just one of many from the university. The pieces had scattered across the floor and into the living room, glistening edges making their sharpness almost beautiful. 

It hadn’t been enough.

Everything on the counter was fair game after that; his electric kettle, the compact spice rack and all its accompanying bottles, his wine glass from last night, still stained with a touch of red at the bottom, the empty bottle from when he’d given up the pretense of needing the glass to begin with. He’d only stopped when he clutched the goddamn mug that had started it all, sloshing lukewarm coffee over it’s edge and all over his hand. 

It had been Nigel’s favorite; a dorky novelty thing he’d found advertised on his Facebook feed, plain white ceramic with a simple text overlay proclaiming him a “Treble Maker”. He’d been so excited when he first brought it over, gingerly shifting the existing mugs on Brian’s shelf to make a space for it and suggesting he pick out his favorite to leave at Nigel’s. So it would always be ready for them wherever they stayed. So that even if they were alone, they would have a little piece of the other with them. That was what truly broke him. The fear that this might be the only piece he had left. He’d stared at the mug, hands shaking with a rage he didn’t know how to temper.

The sound that tore its way from his throat had been the most alien yet. It belonged to some wounded animal, it’s limb wrenched from its body by some cruel trap while its hunters closed in, not to any man. He’d collapsed, curled into the tightest space he could, tucked against the cabinets with his back pressed against the dishwasher. He’d clung to Nigel’s mug, and sobbed.

If his life were any sort of satisfying story, one with an ending that made all the heartache and edge-of-your-seat-dread worthwhile, some clue would have turned up by now. Some hidden secret that would unlock the first door of some greater mystery. Notes would turn up that would lead him to a storage shed filled with illicit goods and a note confirming everything was staged, a framed dried flower would be mailed to his apartment with no return address and no explanation, some distant journal would publish that Nigel had a secret criminal past, and he and nine other equally sordid victims had been found dead in an isolated manor on a private island. But his life was no such mystery, and as he kept trying to remind himself, he was better off for it.

Life wasn't a New York Times bestseller. It was a series of extraordinarily dull decisions that sometimes culminated into something meaningful, but typically only to you. It didn't have tonal consistently, or thematic cohesion, or third act deus ex machinas and happy endings. Only actions, consequences, and the guarantee that other people's consequences would find a way to hurt you too.

It would have been—awful mostly, but  _ exciting _ , to find something that would make it so even if they never found Nigel, they would find something that made sense. But this was real life, and sense was a luxury few could afford, assuming it existed at all. Nigel hadn’t been spirited away under cover of night. He hadn’t run from some harrowing past or towards some grand scheme. He just hadn’t come home.

A part of him was starting to think Rachel might be right. 

Perhaps Conan Doyle had said it best.  _ When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. _ The impossible, in this case, was easy to define. Nigel wasn’t the sort of person to disappear without leaving some trace. On more than one weekend at Brian’s, he’d gotten up early to pick up breakfast and had always left no fewer than three handwritten notes on bathroom mirrors and kitchen counters and the front door,  _ and _ a text to make sure Brian knew he would be back soon. His openness was his defining circumstance. If he were physically capable of sending any sign that he was out there, it would have been loud and explosive and impossible for anyone to miss. Now it had been three weeks, and the only thing they knew for sure was that the last time Nigel was seen, he was with a seemingly chill missing bassist who everyone  _ knew _ was prone to fits of violence and paranoia. Was it fair to hold what may have been one bad trip against him? Probably not. Did he really give a shit? No. Even if there hadn't been any true bad blood between the two, you didn't need a broken relationship for a conversation to turn into a sunken boat and a bullet wound.

With every ticking second, he came to accept that there wouldn’t be a manhunt, they would be looking for a body. And the worst of it was, there was no greater conspiracy. The hound in this tale had acted alone. And as much as he hated the beast, he almost wanted to hate Nigel as much for treading into the woods without arms.

He smoked. A lot. When cigarettes didn't cut it he smoked alternatives. There was probably a rule in the lease  _ somewhere _ that said he wasn't allowed to, but he probably also wasn't allowed to let broken ceramic and streaks of cinnamon and coriander and cayenne settle on his floor for an undetermined length of time, so who cared? He called friends and music contacts and everyone else who was getting sick of his voice during his manic episodes and stared at the ceiling for the rest. He'd drafted a poster offering rewards for any information about  _ Kyle _ , had nearly printed it a dozen times. Had closed the document in shame just as many. It was irrational, Brian  _ knew _ that. He had no evidence, only suspicion. And he wanted— _ God _ , he wanted to find that fucking bassist—how hard could it really be to track down a six-foot-something redhead?—find him and...and what? Ask nicely what had happened? Beat the truth out of him? Shove him in the back of his sedan and let him piss himself with worry, as unsure as Brian was about whether he would end up at a hospital or in a ditch or in that same damned trunk forever when Brian drove them both off a bridge? The thought always rationally ended before he could think too much about it. He couldn’t, he  _ shouldn’t _ be getting any more involved, but no matter what he tried the thought wouldn’t stop circling around the drain of his mind;  _ “he did it, I just can’t prove it.”  _

The anger he felt, when he was capable of feeling anything, burned right to the edge of consumption. Which went a long way towards explaining his need to quell it. Brian circled about as an aimless ghost, gaze lingering on glass frames and paperback novels and kitchen knives and  _ himself _ , at all the things he could break, he'd somehow managed to keep his worst impulses at bay. Weed helped.

He really should take some time to reschedule that appointment with Dr. King.

Tomorrow.

Brian looked up from the spot of ash on his rug that had fallen from his pipe yesterday. A few days ago. That morning. What did it really matter? Time was an illusion and everything would be broken eventually. Like his mug collection. Like the mirror over the mantle, spiral fractures radiating from where he had hit while trying to get blackout drunk, sick of looking at his own face. Like his trust in the authorities and their ability to do anything. Like the dark smudge on the striped rug he'd bought at IKEA when he'd first moved out West. It had felt like such a good decision at the time. He wasn't planning on living out here for more than a few years, so there was no need to get too invested in any furniture purchases, to care too much about making whatever rental he found into a home. Then he had to go and put down roots. Look where that had gotten him.

The typical CBD heavy fare Brian favored on his more anxious days was long since burnt through. The buds had managed to help him relax enough to zone out for a couple of hours—at least, he assumed so, time hadn't made much sense to him lately, but they hadn't done enough. He could still feel. Hopefully today's menu would fix that; the chef's special, a refined heavy THC blend served over the cheapest fucking brownie mix he could find, paired with a sommelier selected house fifth of Jim Beam straight from the bottle because really, who gave a shit. And sure, the agitation was starting to hit him, and the walls seemed a little like they were melting, but his body was starting to feel less like he was wearing it. So, overall, a win.

Maybe he should have said no to the second brownie. Or the half after that. Or maybe the voice in his head needed to stop being such a little bitch.

Nigel's broken reflection stared at him from the mirror; blinking slowly, and just...off. His hair a little too greasy, his eyes slightly sunken, and a touch of what looked like dried blood on his forehead.  _ Wasn't that the kicker. _ He'd finally found a routine that would get him fucked up enough to see Nigel again, and his brain couldn't even conjure him correctly. Instead he was stuck with the vestiges of his subconscious worst thoughts. Some twisted image of his partner as they might find him, either barely hanging on or animated in death. 

Brian shifted in his seat, turning over his shoulder to observe the empty space between him and the front door. Definitely alone. He wasn't sure why he'd even bothered to check.

He took another long drink from his bourbon, resigning himself to the rest of this trip. Sure, he was finally floating, but he was vaguely aware that it was all morose thoughts and bloodshot eyes and heavy tongues from here on out. The early pricklings of a headache formed by his temples. He groaned. He really should have gotten some water before sitting down, but taking care of himself just... didn't feel worth the effort.

The Nigel in the mirror tilted his head to the side slightly. Brian's chuckle was just as off-kilter as his face. He raised his bottle in a mockery of salute. Or maybe it had been a legitimate attempt, but his limbs had decided upon the "fuck it" school of gross-motor management. His bourbon was only a quarter gone. With any luck, it would get bad enough that he might forget what 'better' meant.

"Well," he spoke to the mirror, to his memories, to no one. " _ The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain _ , Right? Well, Byron can go fuck himself. Here's to you, you bastard."

Mirror Nigel blinked, his face unreadable. Brian scoffed. "Right, I forgot, you don't  _ like _ that word. Oh well, what're you gonna do about it?"

The reflection, naturally, remained silent.

"God  _ damn it!"  _ Brian screamed. He jumped up, and the mirror zoomed towards him. More likely, he'd just crossed the three paces between the sofa and the wall, but—"why won't you _ say  _ something _? Anything?" _

Brian's face obscured the entire surface, refracted in so many pieces. Lost. Broken. Uncomfortably aware of his skin despite staring at eyes that didn't feel like his. He was a puzzle strewn across a table, half its pieces on the floor. Maybe he could push them together, snap the misaligned part of himself back into place like it was a dislocated shoulder. His fingertips traced along the cracks in the glass, dating him to wake up. He laughed. He sobbed. The sound was one and the same. Who could possibly want that? Still, he pressed harder. Harder.  _ Harder _ .

_ "Fuck!" _ His hand recoiled, his index finger darting into his mouth. The taste was unmistakable, if the red line dripping down the center split hadn't clued him in. Great. The pieces of him were still broken. It just so happened that now they were raw too.

He was still strewn across that table. He wasn't sure he would ever stop feeling like this.

Brian jumped. The room flipped upside down, a technicolor swirl of bad decisions and nausea. Were it not for the desk he kept tucked against the window, an easy handhold if there ever was one, he would have collapsed completely. A sound from behind had pulled him back into the den. His heart pounded, only—why? He was sure he'd imagined it. And if he hadn’t, it was probably nothing. Maybe he’d left a window open, and there was a raccoon scurrying in the kitchenette. Or maybe he’d finally lost his goddamn mind.

It happened again. A shuffle, drawers being opened and closed,  _ something _ .

“Hello?” Brian called out. He wasn’t shouting, not anymore, but his voice still sounded too loud to his ears. Painful. “Is something being creepy on purpose?”

Right. He inwardly groaned. Even this far gone, Brian knew that sounded stupid. He was alone. He  _ knew _ he was alone. Still, it couldn’t hurt to check. 

Nothing was wrong, he  _ wasn’t going to need it, _ but Brian considered his surroundings anyways. The only thing he had on hand that could be used as a theoretical weapon was his bottle, still two-thirds full. It would have been an awful waste to lose if he had to throw the heavy glass at a possum or something. He took another long drink before stepping forward. Better.

The floor didn’t seem to make contact with his feet. The melting walls inched closer, but never touched his skin. Maybe seconds, maybe hours later, Brian rounded the corner to the little nook of his home. For a second, a single, beautiful second, he’d imagined Nigel on the other side of the wall, alive and well, pulling together the ingredients for his tried-and-true post-getting-fucked-up omelets. He’d always fit into this space so much better than Brian, humming along with the folk songs in his head, bowl in hand and ready to tease Brian for his insistence on wearing socks inside at all times as soon as he made an appearance. Even hungover, dehydrated, and miserable from having only slept four hours, Brian had never known a more peaceful morning than the ones where he woke up to Nigel’s soft renditions of Scarborough Fair or Greensleeves. It wasn’t impossible, this could all just have been a fever dream, a bad trip, a—

His chest clenched. Of course, he was alone. He wasn't sure why he'd even bothered to check.

He slid—was sliding?—to the ground. The tile was cool against his cheek. At least the floor was happy to be his friend. It couldn't leave even if it wanted. Unless—what if the floor wanted to go, but grout and mortar had made it impossible? His eyes fluttered open. How many things wanted to leave, and only didn't because of the obstacles? What would someone be willing to do to tear those obstacles away?

Where had he been going with this?

The floor was still strewn with spices. It was amazing they hadn't drawn ants yet. Not that he blamed them for not being interested, it was probably a pretty gross combination; garlic salt and cardamom and bay leaves and—

A footprint.

He bolted upright. Jesus  _ fucking _ Christ, there was—Brian didn’t need to look more than once to know it wasn’t his, it had a fucking  _ sneaker tread _ for crying out loud. Still, he stumbled forward in the most graceless crawl. It wasn't real. He  _ had  _ to be imagining it. Sure, he'd never hallucinated like this before, but it was hard to say if he'd ever been quite this fucked up. The offending print spiraled into view, and he reached for it. His fingertips traced down the center and came back marred by red and yellow powders. The footprint was broken where he had touched it.  _ Fuck _ , it seemed real enough.

If he hadn't jerked back, stumbling to maintain his balance, he might have missed the piece of thin plastic his hand landed on entirely. It rendered him completely still. He didn't have to remove it from the tile to know exactly what it was.

The guitar pick was innocuous enough. A heavy metallic thing with  _ Fender _ written across the top in gold foil. They were a dime a dozen, only—Nigel was borderline obsessive about keeping them in order. He was well aware of his tendency to misplace things, if he wasn't playing then the picks were in their case. If he wasn't at practice or a show, that case never left his gig bag. That bag has never been in Brian's kitchen. Hell, it had only been in this apartment  _ twice _ in six months.

Shit, it was even one of the blue ones, the only color Nigel was willing to use because it was  _ "good luck"  _ or some other superstitious nonsense. Brian whipped his head around—and immediately groaned in regret, but he was definitely alone. He thought. He probably should have been more concerned about the whole break-in ordeal, but  _ fuck  _ it was the first concrete clue they had yet. His phone was in his hand before he had time to think.

One ring. Two. Voicemail. He could work with that.

"Hey, um, Sam," he exhaled, clutching the pick as though all his hopes balanced on its tiny surface. Oh, wait. "When can you meet? I—I think I have something."

* * *

Considering just a few hours ago Brian had been convincing himself his life wasn’t about to become some fantastic and satisfying mystery thriller, he had no right thinking the diner the Detective had found was as much of a noir cliché as he did. Or maybe all diners that were still open past midnight had that look. Or maybe that was the unfinished comedown from his high talking. Dealer’s choice.

Sam Cunningham already sat half slumped in one of the back corner booths. She ran her finger in circles around the rim of her mug, and stared off at nothing. Her curls still looked fine to him, but the part of his brain that sounded like Nigel, and carried all his knowledge of haircare, knew that it was unkempt from having hands run through it over and over. He didn’t know if the weight in her eyes was from workplace exhaustion or just another case of Brian overthinking things. Regardless. She looked like shit. Brian almost felt bad for asking her to meet so late.

Almost.

He slid into the booth across her. She jumped, though it only took her a second to return to looking exhausted and unimpressed. If there was even a fraction of a chance that she could help, he would consider it the most incredible face he'd ever seen. She took a drink of her coffee, looking to the side all the while.

"So, you found... something." She drawled. Brian nodded. The clouds in his mind were clearing. Be it from his body acclimatizing to a lack of substances or the thought that they might be getting somewhere hardly seemed that matter. He fished the pick from his pocket, his hand shaking enough he nearly dropped it. She had to understand how important this was, she  _ had  _ to.

As he slid the piece across the laminate table, she seemed decidedly less impressed. She silently assessed the little blue plastic, her harsh stare the only contact it seemed to merit in her eyes. Brian felt something in his chest sink. Her eyes flicked up at him.

"You called me over a fucking guitar pick?"

"Yeah, it's—it's one of Nigel's, I'm sure." He rushed with as much confidence as he could muster. Admittedly, in the face of Sam's glare it wasn't as much as he would have liked.

"No shit, I figured you had  _ that _ much sense. Where'd you find it?"

“In my apartment.”

Brian panicked. Fuck, that sounded bad. Sam raised an eyebrow at him from over the rim of her mug, in very much a ‘ _ if you’re really wasting my time with this, we’re gonna have a second disappearance to start investigating’ _ sort of look. He backtracked. “Not like—not like it was in the couch cushions or something, like—like it was on the floor by the fridge, only it wasn’t there this morning, and I think someone might have been in my house? I’m not sure on that front, but. Um. Yeah I think someone left that.”

Sam’s eyes widened, her nostrils flaring. “I’m sorry let’s go back a step. You think someone was  _ in your house?  _ Like, someone broke your locks while you were out and left a guitar pick on the floor for shits and grins? Did you report a breaking and entering?”

“Actually I was home the whole time.” He grimaced. It must have sounded as absurd to the detective as it did to him now that it was spoken aloud, if her scoff was anything to go by.

_ “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” _ She muttered under her breath.

“Hey!” Brian was trying not to panic. He could still salvage this, she hadn’t walked away yet. She picked up her coffee again—maybe she just wasn’t leaving until her cup was done. It didn’t make much sense to him, diner coffee was never  _ that _ good, but if you were tired enough, anything would probably do. At least he hopefully had another half a cup to go before then. “I was—I was like,  _ really _ high, I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. But I  _ know _ this wasn’t there this morning, so. What does it mean?”

Her eyebrow quirked again. “Seriously?” she deadpanned. “I’m a cop, not a fucking psychic.”

Brian sighed. He should have expected this, he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t. Shit, he couldn’t even ask how to check for prints, it wouldn’t do him any good. Why had he had to manhandle the stupid thing and shove it in his pocket? At least the detective was nice enough to not point out that particular failure. Usually, comedown left him relaxed, content, capable of sleeping for more than five sequential hours. After this afternoon, sobering should have felt like a fucking relief. Instead, he just felt cold.

“Look,” Sam continued, pulling his focus back to reality and all its shittiness, “maybe it means something, maybe it doesn’t. It probably just got kicked out from under some cabinet or some shit, or hey, maybe someone did sneak through your window or whatever so they could leave some dumb clue and not steal your TV. Who knows? But I can’t  _ do anything _ with that. Are you  _ sure _ someone was in your place? We could get someone to case the place for prints, signs of forced entry, the whole nine yards.”

It was a lifeline, it was a  _ chance _ . She was throwing him a line, Brian knew that, only—he deflated. “I…” He trailed off. What did he really have to go on? He’d checked all the locks and windows of his tiny apartment five times, and there weren’t that many of them to worry about. All of them had been locked and intact. He thought he’d heard something in the other room? What the fuck did that count for, he apparently managed to fully fucking hallucinate his lover, so—it wasn’t like his memories were remotely  _ reliable _ . He couldn’t even reasonably count out the footprint, could he. Did it actually have a sneaker tread, or had it been from one of his pairs of loafers? He didn’t usually wear shoes in his apartment, but he’d been so fucked up lately who’s to say he hadn’t? It wasn’t like he could go back and check the print more closely, he’d already destroyed it. He sighed. “...Like I said, I was...really high. I don’t know what I heard.”

Sam shrugged. The gesture could have read as dismissive, annoyed, only. Her eyes spoke of apologies, of having had to tell families and loved ones over and over the worst news;  _ ‘we can’t find them’ _ , _ ‘we found her, but…’ _ , _ ‘we weren’t there in time’ _ , and so on, but despite the repetition they never came any easier. “Well. Fuck.” She whispered.

Brian was getting real tired of silences falling over tables. But what the hell else was there to say? The buzzing of the light overhead, the humming of the espresso machine, the chatter of late night regulars with the unreasonably perky waitress, all became a singular blur. The sounds of life moving on. The reminder that he was meaningless in the eyes of the universe. Once upon a time, that thought had brought him comfort; if his single life was so small, then so too were his obstacles. If nothing mattered, then it was his responsibility to find what mattered  _ to him _ , and that was enough. Now it just felt like a kick in the teeth. He knew what was next from here. He’d read enough rough guides on missing persons protocols online. And no amount of not wanting to ask was going to change the reality of the situation.

“Um,” his fingers tapped against his knee nervously, “how much longer until...until you’re off the case?”

“The case gets moved to the Missing Person’s Squad on Monday.” She finished, dejected. 

Brian sunk further. Maybe the fake wood texture of the peeling table would have some good news. And maybe Nigel would sprout wings and fly home or some shit.  _ Fuck _ , he was only just sober and he already wanted to get high again. If he didn’t start curbing this habit now, he knew it would be a serious issue when he started his classes again. But who cared? His students were all pretentious asshats and he was done pretending they weren’t. Fuck them. That was a tomorrow Brian problem.

“Do you—do you think they’ll—”

“ _ No _ , I don’t think they’re going to find anything different, okay? Their department is fucking  _ swamped  _ with possible trafficking cases. I can guarantee they’re not going to care about one aristocrat’s adult son who we can’t even prove is  _ missing _ .” Sam snapped. She brought her mug up again, and this time, Brian noticed the chrome flash of a flask inside her jacket pocket when she moved. 

_ Oh. _

Brian shifted uncomfortably. Maybe he was starting to feel bad about calling her. The more he came back into his skin, the worse an idea it felt like. Unfortunately for both of them, she was all he had. He looked up.

“What about the footage you found, the one you were investigating last week? Did anything turn up from that?” he asked cautiously. Of all the reactions he anticipated, the bark of distraught and humorless laughter that came from the detective’s mouth was not one of them. She returned to her mug—Brian estimated it to be at least half alcohol but who was to say? He certainly wasn’t in any position to judge—before turning her gaze back out the window. To the middle distance. Anywhere but on him.

“Even if I had found anything about your guy out there, it wouldn’t be admissible as evidence. I didn’t exactly get that film legally, you know?” Brian nodded, not that she was waiting for his acknowledgement. He hadn't known, but, given how helpful the rest of the department had been so far it made sense. It was amazing how composed she was, all things considered. He could only just hear the slight slurring of her words now that he was listening for it. “And like, if Nigel was anywhere that warehouse then we’ve got an entirely different investigation to start.”

He blinked. "I don't follow."

"Of course not," Sam scoffed. He wondered how much longer it would be before she gave up the pretense of her mug and just went straight for the flask. On one hand, you probably didn't become a detective without knowing how to at least pretend to have your shit together. But on the other, her edges were fraying. Her gaze was haunted, and Brian wasn't sure he wanted to know the face of her ghosts.

“Fuck, there was so much blood," she murmured, "do you know what a person looks like inside out? Because I’m like, ninety percent sure I do.”

"Wait, what?”

“I found a body, dumbass, keep up.”

Brian felt himself go pale. His fingers twitched under the table for want of a cigarette or bottle or any other self-destructive means of releasing his nerves. “You?  _ What? _ Fuck, was it Nigel? Do you know anythi-”

"What part of _ 'inside out'  _ didn't you follow?" she snapped. Brian startled back. Maybe under her armor she was just as burnt out and hollow as anyone else. Or maybe she was anger through and through, growing hotter and more molten the deeper you dug. All he could figure was that his first assessment of the detective had been so wrong. She wasn’t indifferent to anything, it wasn’t a word that could be found in her bones. She either cared entirely and all consumingly, like a flame cared for kindling, or she repressed, and she could don either as steel. Lucky her.

"I didn’t have a reason to be there, no legal probable cause. It's being looked into but I'm not anywhere near that case. Fuck, I had to call it in anonymously from a friggin' pay phone, do you have  _ any idea _ how hard it is to find a working pay phone?"

Brian, in fact, did not know how difficult it was. Just one more thing on the list of ways he was ultimately hopeless outside of academia. Not that it mattered, being a rhetorical question and all. A dramatic device. A point that needed to be made. Brian sat up a little straighter.

“You think Nigel’s connected.” It wasn’t a question. Sam was an investigator, practically a professional bloodhound. She wouldn’t have said anything if it didn’t have a point. Her face hardened further. 

“I don’t know what I think, I’ve just seen a lot that doesn’t really make sense. But...like I said, my gut hasn't been wrong yet.”

He felt something in his own gut ice over. “Well,” he challenged, “there’s a first time for everything.”

The clouds in his mind might have cleared but all they’d done was expose the greater storm, and he was trying to predict its patterns with half his satellites down. She held all the cards, all of the evidence. All he could do was grasp at the straws around him and pray they were strong enough to keep the wind from tearing him apart. 

Nigel might have been there, he could consider conceding that much, but he  _ wasn’t _ involved, he couldn’t have been. The only way Nigel could hurt anyone, could even  _ watch _ another person be hurt, was if he was being forced against his will. And the detective wasn’t the only one who’s instincts were saying something had to be checked out. 

“What about Kyle?” he interjected, “he’s missing too, there should be a report—and, last I heard you still haven’t found him, and he was the last person Nigel was seen with, so—maybe it was him? You’ve got to have looked into him, right?”

Brian had been aiming for assertive, confident. Sure of a theory that needed to be looked into. Instead, he found himself biting back a cringe. Even to his ears, his voice had been desperate. Pathetic. Sam gave him a quick pitying glance before pushing her hair back. 

“Fuck, I _really_ should not be telling you this.” Her eyes flitted away for a moment, undoubtedly assessing the situation even in her state of moderate inebriation. After a second, she shrugged. “Look, you’re not next of kin. Ergo, you’re not actually privy to this info. But, fuck it, in for a penny, in for a misconduct investigation... Kyle’s been found. He got arrested by another precinct two days ago. Bar fight. I’ve talked to Bill about bringing him in for questioning, but it’s the same situation as before. There’s no evidence of a struggle, nothing that could link _either_ party to a crime. Hell, we don’t even have reasonable suspicion. At least, Bill doesn’t think so, and he’s the lead officer, so.” She sighed, her eyes flashing with frustration. It was unfair, but he wanted to scream that she couldn't understand the half of it.

Given the option between expressing some recognition that Sam Cunningham had actually gone out on a limb for him and couldn't go any further without it snapping under her weight, or telling her exactly where she could shove her COs thoughts on the investigation, Brian opted to split the difference and go with the latter. This wasn’t over yet, this  _ couldn’t _ be. “What, so—so that’s it?” he fumed. “There’s gotta be something we can look into, another lead? Maybe I can see the tape, or—or whatever else you’re working off of. No offense, but you haven’t exactly given me much of an explanation why you think Nigel’s somehow involved in a  _ fucking murder  _ _investigation_ , there  _ has _ to be more going on—”

“Yeah, there definitely is,” she interrupted, and Brian’s jaw snapped shut. Anger might have been the only thing keeping him upright, and while he had plenty of it to hand out, something about Sam herself scared him. Or left him in awe. Maybe a bit of both. Even as he hated her a little for not having  _ a single goddamn decent answer _ , he respected her. Or maybe he was too much of a coward to say anything to her face. Was there really a difference? “Shit’s fucked. But it’s more than I can handle without backup.”

She took a deep breath and turned towards the window. “You wanna know why I became a cop?" she exhaled. Then, a beat. Not that she was waiting for Brian's answer, just—collecting her thoughts. He looked out to the street himself, to the steady stream of traffic running through the city even at this hour, at groups of friends looking for good times and cabs home, at couples walking hand in hand. A gentle rain was starting to fall over the street, but there weren't any umbrellas going up. The joys of inaccurate weather forecasts, he supposed.

Once, Brian had looked at the people around him and seen stories—countless possibilities of who any one of them could be. Now, he just saw opportunities for loss, and people fortunate enough to not know it. Looking back at Sam, he couldn't help but wonder; what did she see in the crowd? The patter of droplets on the window began picking up, a white noise that seemed to blanket the city and lull it to a false sense of calm. Sam shifted, the vinyl of the booth squeaking beneath her and breaking any fraction of the spell that had taken hold over their table. "I... growing up, my dad was really into Westerns. That was our thing, watching old reruns of Gunsmoke, and Wyatt Earp, and  _ a lot _ of things that in hindsight, weren't exactly appropriate to watch with your eight year old,” she shrugged. “And...I guess I internalized a lot of those stories. Riding into danger, guns blazing, ready to save some beautiful girl and ride into the sunset knowing justice was served, that sort of stuff. Then you grow up, shit gets complicated. The bad guy isn’t easy to spot and the good guys are usually just as corrupt. But  _ fuck _ , I wanted to be a hero, I wanted it  _ so goddamn bad _ .” There was a wistfulness to her voice, one that Brian wouldn't have expected. A sense of mourning for a little girl long since gone. Sam finished the rest of her ambiguous coffee and liquor blend, that wistfulness drowned away when she spoke again. 

"The real world is bullshit. It's a lot less valor and a lot more wondering if you're  _ ever _ doing the right thing. It's a lot of paperwork, and even more bureaucracy, but I think that's all there for a reason. There's a  _ reason  _ there aren't any heroes out here. In the real world, if you try and run a dangerous case solo because you  _ ‘have a hunch’ _ and you  _ ‘know there’s something more to uncover’ _ , you don't find some tycoon paying bandits in stolen gold to rob a train to destroy his competition. You don't figure out there's a bigger conspiracy and send the roof crashing down on the whole damn establishment. Heroes don't get shit done. They just die."

The rain was falling heavier now. How fucking cliché. And the worst of it was, he had to admit she was right. Sure, he’d never wanted to be a hero. He’d never wanted a part in any story, just an outcome that had—if not closure, at least catharsis. Now this was a bigger story than he could wrap up alone, and he feared the unfinished manuscript would break him. “I...I just don’t know what to do.”

Sam glanced down for a moment. “Maybe Nigel’s gotten involved in something big, and he’s on the run. Maybe he left that pick behind to let you know he’s alright, to tell you to move on.”

“That’s—”

“Complete bullshit?” she chuckled, before her face fell again. It could have been sincerity, or it could have just been the booze catching up with her finally. What difference did it really make? “Yeah, I know, but you’ve got to have something to tell yourself.”

Brain fell silent. Unbidden, he found himself thinking of the guy in Boston he’d dated for two months before leaving the States. He’d been—well, tall. Extremely hot, in a dark, brooding, artsy-bohemian-who-doesn’t-own-a-shirt-that-buttons-above-his-naval sort of way,  _ incredible  _ in bed, but. Most of all he’d been distant. Or at least, closed off and unwilling to talk about his feelings. Or anything, for that matter. Brian had known they were breaking up long before he got to their Wednesday morning coffee-spot. Really, he’d been glad Samar had decided to break up with him before he’d had to pull the trigger. But even knowing he wanted to end things just as much, knowing it was for the best because there was  _ no way _ they could make long distance work, the entire walk down Lincoln Street had left his nerves wracked with anticipation. What could he say, he’d always hated endings.    
  
This felt so much worse.

“I get it, this sucks,” Sam continued, “and I think you’re right. Your boy didn’t get bored and walk off. Something happened, but I can’t go any further on my own, and you definitely shouldn’t either. Hire a PI, start a Facebook campaign, put out a press release. But—Brian, I don’t think you’re going to find him, not this late in the game...I’m not going to tell you to move on. People don’t ever do that. Just, try and find some fucking closure where you can. I’m sorry, but, I’m out.” 

There wasn’t so much as a pause for a response. She fished a few bills from her pocket and slapped them on the table, before sliding from the cracked vinyl booth and heading to the door. It wouldn’t have made a difference if she had waited, Brian had nothing left to say.

There was so much he wished he’d said. He wished he’d pushed harder on Kyle, figured out  _ where exactly _ he’d been arrested. Just so they could talk. He could keep lying to himself on that front. He wished he’d pushed harder for Nigel to find a new fucking bassist three months ago. He wished he’d just asked Nigel to come home.

Brian stayed in his booth for what was undoubtedly an inconsiderate amount of time, but—whatever, it wasn’t like anyone was clamoring for his table, and it was a 24 hour diner to boot, he wasn’t keeping anyone here late. If he was, he probably wouldn’t have cared. He was on his own with this, and that would have to be enough. He wasn’t letting up. Not until he solved this, or the day he died.

* * *

Things didn't exactly get any easier from there.

The problem with wanting was that it didn't actually change anything. Wanting to be an artist didn’t make you the next Michelangelo, wanting to fix a broken watch didn’t make you a clocksmith, and wanting to continue where the detective had left off didn't suddenly make him a skilled investigator, let alone less of a coward.

He'd checked every local journal he could for any mention of what Sam had found, and come up empty. In hindsight, it wasn't surprising that the police were keeping an investigation like that quiet.

So, Brian kept drinking. He got high enough that he’d thought he might see Nigel, but never quite managed to get the circumstances right to hallucinate him again. All there was to show for his efforts were several awful trips and nights of agitation and paranoia. He remembered to eat, sometimes, though it was all whatever he could get delivered. The kitchen still felt like a place he couldn’t step, an overwhelming eeriness hitting him whenever he thought about it. He didn’t sleep, so much as pass out wherever he might have been sitting for unknown periods of time. He sat staring at his phone for hours, hoping someone would have seen the posters with Nigel’s face plastered across them, the ones where his eyes managed to sparkle even in the faded ink from his old printer. Someone would call with word that Nigel was in the hospital with amnesia, or had witnessed a mob hit and had been pulled into witness protection, or— _ fuck, _ Brian would even accept that he’d been whisked away to Hogwarts or some other bullshit. He printed more posters and stapled them to telephone poles when the rain tore the old ones away. He went to the bar, ignored strangers and potential lovers and the odd student who'd been unfortunate enough to recognize Professor Devlin and asked if he was alright. He stumbled home without memory of the trip, passed out, and began anew the next day. Time had stopped meaning anything to Brian, but she wasn't so kind in exchange.

Before he knew it, Monday had come, and he was expected to  _ act like a person _ again. At least college students these days expected their professors to be hungover, dead inside, or some blend of the two. That being said, he hoped his students expectations were  _ slightly _ higher than having their professor show up twenty minutes late, spend five minutes staring at the syllabus before coming to the conclusion that no, he did  _ not _ want to spend forty-five minutes spoon feeding translations and interpretations of  _ ‘The Wanderer’  _ to a room full of twenty two year olds. God, they weren’t much younger than him. Yet, even though he’d only been out of grad school a few years, he found he couldn’t relate to them at all. They still chattered amongst themselves about whatever unimportant ramblings undergrads had these days; who was dating who and whether Fortnite was lamer than Overwatch or if they would just let people like what they liked. They still had hope.

Brian had declared class over less than ten minutes after entering the lecture hall. Well—more like he’d snapped his binder full of lecture notes shut, declared the entire course stupid, told everyone he’d email them a video essay that explained it better than he could because  _ “all this shit’s free on YouTube anyways, I don’t know why you’re even here” _ , and left in haste. All in all...it wasn’t his finest moment. All in all, he didn’t care.

The next morning he sent a similar email to his graduate poetry class. They'd better take advantage of the day off. From what he'd heard, Professor Wells had assigned them one hell of an essay last week.

Wednesday, he told himself, he would at least make a pretense of showing up for his office hours, even if he’d only awoken from his position on the sofa two hours after they were supposed to have started. The cotton mouth was killing him, and his eyes burned, and worst of all, last night he hadn’t even been lucky enough to stumble into a bad high, with creeping paralysis and voices running past him he could pretend were familiar. He’d just fallen asleep. At some point between lighting up and unconsciousness, he must have blacked out, because Nigel’s _ ‘treble maker’ _ mug was on the coffee table and he didn’t remember getting it from the cabinet.

Thanks to the assistance of a breakfast bottle of cabernet, Brian was able to shrug it off. He threw his clothes into the steadily growing pile he would wash eventually. He didn’t have the energy to shower, but he had axe body spray. That was close enough, right? He haphazardly brushed his teeth, learned that mint toothpaste and wine was possibly the worst pairing on the face of the planet, threw on a shirt, and stumbled down three flights and onto the street. He nearly tripped over some alley cats and cursed public drinking laws under his breath on his way to the B-line.

The Translink ride was uneventful, the most notable part of the journey being Brian’s earlier departure than usual. So he wanted to walk longer, sue him. His office was too claustrophobic, the pitying looks from the rest of the department almost as infuriating as the hushed whispers, the promise of desperate undergrads barging in and asking for an extension on a paper they were assigned two months ago all too real. The open air of the streets leading to UBC was just as suffocating, but at least it was ten more minutes he could claim for himself. Ten more minutes to zone out and pretend he was just one of a million people, with a life just as petty. Most of the morning commute was long since over, the sidewalks partially filled with students heading to local delis and bike couriers and families enjoying the chill November air. As far as he could tell, it hadn't been cold enough to snow yet. Local businesses were just starting to put up their Christmas decorations, nearly stopping him in his tracks.

_ “I’m just saying, it’s weird seeing fireworks on the first, alright?” Brian laughed as he tucked under Nigel’s arm.  _

_ Nigel grinned against his temple, placed a soft kiss on his forehead. “Right love, I’ll be sure to phone the Prime Minister and ask him to move things on account of your American Sensibilities.” _

_ “You ass.” He teased. _

_ “You traitor to the crown.” Nigel teased right back. _

_ Brian pulled their shared blanket tiger around their shoulders, not that they needed it. It was uncharacteristically warm, even for July, but that wouldn’t stop him from nestling closer. They would just have to sweat together. The sun was just setting, the view perfect from the roof of Brian’s apartment. Sure, it was far from the best vantage point in Kitsilano, too far inland to get a proper view over English Bay, but they’d be able to see the Canada Day festivities more than clearly enough. And if something did come to cover that too—that was fine. Nigel was spectacular enough to outshine any fireworks display. He sighed contentedly, sinking deeper against his side. _

_ “For what it’s worth,” Brian mused, “most of the founding fathers were probably Welsh descendants, so... takes one to know one.” _

__

_ The gasp of mock indignation Nigel exhaled was music all it’s own. “Brian Devlin, you take that back!” _

_ He grinned. “Make me.” _

_ The challenge was, as he well expected, accepted without hesitation. Nigel barely took a moment to quirk his brow before diving in, kissing Brian breathless. Though that may have been the fault of his fingers dancing across Brian’s ribs, not that he would admit to ticklishness. The spaces where they stopped for air were filled with laughter and heat, only stopping once Nigel had Brian’s back pressed to the flat concrete of the roof, his forearms boxing him in place. Looking up at Nigel, face flushed and pupils dilated, with Brian fully aware he was in much the same state, his tongue formed around the words he’d wanted to say so many times— _ ‘I don’t know why, but I already feel like I’ve known you my whole life. You feel it too, right?’

_ Instead, he took the coward’s road. Again. _

_ “So,” Brian whispered, his voice slowly easing back into actual conversation, “since you’re probably not a fan of the day my ancestors kicked your ancestor’s asses—” _

_ “Watch it.” Nigel interjected, his playful threat dripping from his tongue. Brian rolled his eyes before pushing himself up for a second, just enough to kiss Nigel’s cheek.  _ God _ , he had stupidly gorgeous cheekbones. _

_ “Like I was saying  _ before _ I was so rudely interrupted, I doubt you’re a fourth of July fan. So, what is your favorite holiday?” _

_ For a moment, it seemed like Nigel wasn’t going to answer. He scoffed softly, then broke eye contact to gaze to the side. Brian was about to take the question back, tell him not to worry about it, when Nigel rolled over to lay beside him instead. _

_ “Alright, so like,” he gestured with his hands like he was in need of something to grasp. Fortunately, Brian’s hands were more than available and willing to volunteer for the job. “It’s bloody cliché, but fuck it. I like Christmas. Not like—the commercialized shite and one-upmanship you lot call the holidays—no offense—” _

_ “None taken.” Brian chuckled, giving Nigel’s hand a gentle squeeze. _

_ “Right, so—it’s just got a lot of good memories for me. Going to pantomimes with mum, opening crackers, and just—you know, the togetherness of it all? The warm fires and twinkling lights and being with family. Or at least, the parts that want to see you. It’s...it’s been a while since I’ve had one of those, but the memories don’t really go away, do they?” _

_ He relaxed, his head rolling to the side so his eyes locked with Brian’s. He inhaled sharply, an uncontrolled but understandable reflex to the sheer openness, the overwhelming trust in Nigel’s eyes. “I’m really looking forward to having one of those with you.” _

_ For a minute Brian wanted—to rage against everyone who had ever told Nigel he wasn’t enough, to wipe the whispers of tears from the corner of his eyes and promise him the same, to take that sincerity and tear his beating heart from his chest and hand it over, in hopes of at least half-matching it. _

_ Instead he would have to settle for pushing Nigel’s curls from his forehead. Kissing away the lines of worry from his face. Gently pushing him to his back and bracketing his own thighs over Nigel’s hips. Letting Nigel curl into his body, showing him just how wanted he was with the stars and brightly colored skies as their witnesses. _

_ Needless to say, they’d missed the fireworks display. Needless to say, neither of them minded. _

How the hell was he supposed to forget that?

Strangers gave him a wide berth as he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Back home, he knew he would have been inundated with passerbys shoulders and elbows and mutters of  _ "get a move on, jackass". _ God bless Canada and her courtesy, sure, but the foul temperament of Boston would have felt less like a slap in the face. Oh well, it was what it was. Shit happened. Life moved on. And so it went.

He just needed to take another breath. One more inhalation, and he could take the next step. And the one after that. And the one after that… fuck, walking sucked. He should have just cancelled his office hours too, gone three for three.

Still, the way home was longer than the remainder of his walk to campus, and if he was going to be miserable in either place, he might as well enjoy a change of scenery. Or at least the closest equivalent of 'enjoy' he could find. Probably 'tolerate'. Brian looked up, resolving himself to the remaining quarter mile of his journey—

Brian froze mid-step.

He  _ knew  _ he was imagining things, but—moving ahead in the crowd, just concealed by several groups converging in front of some pet boutique or another with hugs and  _ ‘how are you’s’ _ , was—

“Nigel?  _ Nigel! _ ”

He surged forward, not caring who stared or who he crashed into or if he'd maybe just knocked someone's grandma to the ground. He didn't think he had. No one was shouting at him. Would he notice if they were? The impact of the pavement jolted through his knees but he just needed to  _ run _ . It was stupid to get his hopes up, Brian knew that. But for one second, one stupid split-second, he'd been there. Just a couple of blocks up, towering over the rest of the street before disappearing around the corner. He  _ had _ to catch up. Just a few more paces. Or ten. Or twenty.  _ Fuck _ , even if Brian had been a runner, a steady, month long diet of wine and cigarettes had done his lungs no favors. The burning in his chest was almost unbearable. He hardly felt it. The sway of lightheadedness when he rounded the corner too fast was slightly more bothersome. The sway of lightheadedness when he locked onto the mess of dark curls piled over the collar of a wool coat, less easily ignored. 

Tears formed at the corners of Brian’s eyes. They were too small to actually fall, he was probably dehydrated now that he thought about it, but  _ fuck it _ . None of that mattered. Just his outstretched hand and Nigel’s shoulder and his desperate plea—“Nigel, you—Fuck, I can’t—Are you—”

He turned, startled. Nigel—

It wasn’t him.

Brian stepped back. He didn’t make any effort to hide the falling of his face. He wasn’t sure he would know how. “Sorry, I—I thought—”

“Hey, it’s fine,” the man who, the longer Brian looked at him, resembled Nigel less and less, interrupted, uneasy. “You, um—you take care, alright?”

The stranger slipped away, his face already forgotten. Watching his back again, Brian saw more differences yet. The sweep of his curls was too tight, his shoulders too narrow. He should have known better. He  _ had _ known better, he’d just ignored himself. But the longer he looked, the more he wondered if his could have been the face he saw floating over the thin crowds, if he was even tall enough. 

Brian knew better. He knew he was being irrational. But the prickling under his skin said Nigel really had been there. And that something was wholly and entirely wrong.

It somehow managed to get worse yet.

Unsurprisingly, he managed to miss his office hours entirely. Instead he’d gone straight to the nearest bar. Once he was four rum and cokes in, he’d stumbled to the bathroom, where he’d managed to force his shaking hands to cooperate enough to call the department head. He’d told her he’d be out another couple of weeks, and she’d reminded him he was only tenure-tracked and needed to pull it together, to which he’d called her a bitch and told her to _ “ride your high horse back into hell and get fucked. By the horse.” _

All in all, he wouldn't have called it his finest moment.

Understandably, Brian’s plans involved far less leaving his apartment now. He drank, now adding rent to the ever growing list of concerns he was burning from his brain. At least November was already paid, he’d hopefully have till the end of December before getting thrown out on his ass. He flipped his coffee table, tired of looking at his reflection in the glass top and letting it break. When he couldn’t stand to look at the plaster around him, he found any shitty bar he could. He ignored the call from his pharmacy that his Abilify refill was ready, after discovering his existing bottle was still half full. He called Rachel at three in the morning, left a voicemail he had no memory of, but whatever he’d said was clearly awful enough that when he’d called to apologize—the next afternoon? The day after next? The morning of? Who fucking knew—his number had been blocked. He thought about calling Sam again. 

He wrote more letters to no one, burning them before the ink could even dry.

_ Dear Julia, what’s the fucking point of any of it? _

_ Dear Julia, I think you had the right idea, getting out of here when you did. _

_ Dear Julia, you’d find a way to let me know if he was with you, wouldn’t you? _

The fireplace was probably getting really tired of working this hard.

Between the growing pile of ash, the growing piles of broken glass and ceramic, the growing collection of empty bottles, the apartment had become pretty...well, Brian definitely wasn’t getting his security deposit back. But at least it matched his mind—shattered, displaced, and slowly but surely losing control.

It was one thing to know he was losing time—walks he couldn’t remember, hours spent staring at walls that he hadn’t felt pass until the room was cast in the blue light of nightfall. It was another to come face to face with the physical evidence. Or maybe he was just losing his mind.

There was the last disappointing high he'd awoken from. The drugs hadn't worked, they'd only fueled fever dreams of upside down castles and never-ending corridors, and when the gun went off Nigel's hand was on the trigger.  _ "Technically, I never agreed to anything" _ , he'd spat, colder that he had any right to, and when Brian looked down at his chest the hole was only growing wider and blood was pouring out of him, a crimson fountain and he  _ couldn't make it stop _ , and the walls were closing in and  _ something  _ was coming but he just kept bleeding—

Brian flew upright. His hands bolted to his chest—the blood was still running and he couldn't make it stop and he couldn't  _ breathe _ and—and nothing. The knit cotton blanket over his legs, the fake ficus in the corner he’d only gotten because some lifestyle blog suggested it to  _ ‘add life to any space’ _ , the smell of stale wine and citrus candles that weren’t doing their job, hit him in succession. He swallowed air like a drowning man swallowed the sea. He was home. He was alive. He was far from alright.

Once Brian’s heart stopped trying to tear it’s way from his ribcage, once the rest of his senses started working again, he could hear the source of his problem. Through the door, he could just make out the kitchen sink running. Typical, that he would fail to take care of something so simple.

Only, he couldn’t remember turning it on. He couldn’t remember going anywhere  _ near _ it. The kitchen was still a no-fly zone, unless he was getting another bottle or a fork because that day’s takeout provider had forgotten. 

There was the morning he’d finally bothered to stumble into the bathroom and brush his teeth for the first time in—he wasn’t going to think about that. Nigel’s mug had been on the sink. Only, Brian could distinctly remember wiping it off with a dish towel that had probably been out a day too long and placing it back in the cabinet, the sole survivor of his ceramics massacre. He’d tried to ignore the unease in his gut. It was harder to ignore the flash of Nigel’s face in the mirror when he rinsed.

Brian spun as soon as he appeared, mint foam still hanging from his lip. The bathroom behind him was empty, the air still, but there was a cold he just couldn’t ignore.

There had been the night he’d stumbled home from the bar—well, one of the nights. When this routine had first started, Brian had a rotation of the four bars closest to him to lose himself at. He was in a downward spiral, not desperate to embarrass himself in front of his favorite bartenders in Vancouver. But really, who was he trying to impress anymore?

Steph had been pretty cute though, a nice distraction. Maybe a little perky for what he could currently handle but she’d had  _ amazing _ breasts. Blonde waves framing a delicate face, she’d been out for the bachelorette party of a co-worker she didn’t actually like, and was more than happy to come along on his detour. They’d made out by the bathrooms, tongues tied and hands straying away from publicly acceptable activity, but like he’d said. Her breasts were incredible. His body held hers against the wall, and she moaned into his mouth and pressed her hips against his  _ hard _ . When they separated for air, he’d been seconds away from asking  _ ‘so, how far is your place?’ _ —only—

Only in the reflection of the glass sign beside her head, the one proclaiming this establishment a runner up for ‘Vancouver’s Best Bar’ in 2007 according to some local journal that was probably long since out of business, he saw the flash of his newest ghost. This time, he didn’t look over his shoulder. He just felt sick.

“I, um, sorry—I—I need to go home.” He’d managed to stammer, lightheadedness hitting him all at once. Steph brushed his hair from his forehead, concerned.

“Well that’s sudden, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just—” Brian swallowed, “I’ve actually—I’ve got someone waiting for me. I’m—I’m really sorry—”

Somewhere distant, Brian was vaguely aware of her indignation, her huff of _ “are you fucking serious?” _ , but it didn’t actually register. The amber lights of the bar were dimming, seeming more haunted house than pub. The walls were sinking in on him—when was the last time he’d eaten any real food? And who cared? With any luck, there’d be a food truck outside, he could solve that problem pretty easily.

Three blocks and two tacos later, Brian’s head was spinning less but his hands were still shaking. They fumbled his key several times, dropping them four times before he hit his front door in frustration, only to find he’d left it unlocked. A part of him thought he should be concerned, but the larger part remembered that he had nothing left worth taking. He crossed the tiny space between the threshold and the couch that had been his bed more nights than not, his mattress just felt too vast, and he collapsed on the squeaky leather. Sometime after midnight, his eyes had fluttered open of their own accord. Brian had ached upwards, his jaw was inflamed from clenching his teeth so hard, his mouth dryer than his dissertation. Maybe some water wasn’t a bad idea. Maybe he’d find Nigel’s mug waiting for him again.

Instead, when his brain regained some sense of awareness, he focused on the forest green cardigan draped over the hideous plaid accent chair he’d thrifted because it was thirty bucks and he needed a place where company could possibly sit. It was only a difference of ten feet,  _ maybe _ , but Brian  _ knew _ he’d left the cable knit wool wadded by the arm of the sofa, where he could breathe in what little of Nigel was left.

Something inside Brian fell. It had been wearing thin for a while, but the floodgates were open and no one had thought to build a ship. He laughed. Softly, then with his entire being. He tucked into himself on the floor, the corners of his eyes watering. This was—this was  _ what?  _ Brian’s reality was hanging by the thinnest of tethers, and his circle of people had been playing musical chairs for so long that he was well and truly the winner. His prize? Having absolutely no one to call when the rope finally snapped.

So Brian let himself break. If he was going to be haunted, there were worse phantoms one could have. Maybe completely losing it would be worth it, if it left him less alone. Maybe he could even believe that. Or, he could pull himself together in the morning.

He wouldn’t, he knew that, but—it was a pretty enough lie.

* * *

Brian was drunk again. Not that it meant much, given his track record for the month, but it was still the only remedy that did anything for his sense of overwhelming impotence.

He was sure he looked as awful as he felt. The last time he'd tried sleeping, the sickly, crawling sense of being watched had washed over and settled in like an unwelcome in-law. Every few minutes he swore he heard the floorboards creaking, or felt the tickle of breath on the back of his neck. The sixth time it happened, he'd shot upright yelling. Of course his bedroom had been empty; the fan whirring overhead was probably to blame. It was an obvious and logical explanation, so of course, it hadn't kept him from sitting up with the lights on for the rest of the night, his only company a rapidly decreasing supply of cigarettes. That had been two nights ago.

This particular bar was further out in Gastown than he would have typically gone to alone, but when he'd stepped into his regular establishment, Derrick had been behind the counter. Beautiful, responsible, courteous, mother fucking  _ Derrick _ who insisted on switching people over to water and not letting anyone risk getting arrested for a drunken disorderly. A true gentleman. Fuck him. Brian had turned on his heel and let the chill of winter embrace him again. A light drizzle had fallen overhead, the weather turning the sprinkle into a rain of icy needles. At least it was a feeling that seemed real, that didn’t make Brian want to crawl out of his skin. He'd wandered the streets of downtown Vancouver for nearly half an hour before settling here. The live band was too spirited for his desired state of impassion, drawing the same energy from the rest of the bar. But, the drinks were cheap, and he didn’t know anyone here, so what did it matter?

Maybe that was the entire problem, now that he’d thought about it. He didn’t know anyone here. Who the hell did he even have left?

Well, there was always Sarah. Stacy? Skylar.  _ Whoever _ . Her name really didn't matter. But she was overwhelmed with customers and not keeping track of who had drunk how much, or maybe she didn't care. Either way, she was heavy with her pours, so she was currently Brian's favorite person in the world.

The band was finally winding down somewhere around his fifth vodka tonic. They were—objectively, not very good. Their set ended on a whimper. A monotonous, generic pop punk number that left everyone ready to find their friends again, instead of finding the frontman and finding out when they’d be playing again and if he wanted to fuck.  _ The Regal Miscreants _ would have wrapped up so much better. Nigel would have worked the bar into a frenzy, would have left them panting and wanting and  _ desperate _ for more. He would have sauntered off the shitty, probably sticky stage in the corner and thrown back a few rounds with anyone who wanted. He would have pulled Brian in to kiss him, fervent, hungry, without a single care what any of his countless new admirers thought.

He probably also would have had something nice to say about whoever the fuck was playing now, but he wasn’t here. So.

Brian shot down the last of vodka tonic number five. He’d stopped feeling them burn weeks ago, but the long walls of the bar still narrowed and spun when he turned his head. Sarah-Stacy-Skylar was needed for drink number six. He half raised a hand to flag her down, hoping to reach her before the flood of patrons by the stage properly migrated over. Only—his focus never reached the bartender. Emerging from the crowd, speaking with some nobody from the band, a monument to the rage that had been simmering in his bones for weeks stood slightly above the rest of the room, wearing a fake vintage Queen t-shirt. Brian’s grip tightened on his empty glass, as Kyle Vaughn’s eyes locked back on him. From across the room, he turned back to his fellow mediocre musician, gripping him firmly on the shoulder and nodding before  _ heading his way what the  _ fuck _ did he think he was doing?  _ Brian’s nostrils flared, his breaths coming faster. Maybe if he clenched his fist tight enough, the glass would shatter under his palm. It would hurt, but it would be something he could use. Depended on whether or not the bar cheaped out on their drinkware or not.

_ ‘It’s the same situation as before. There’s no evidence of a struggle, nothing that could link either party to a crime. Hell, we don’t even have reasonable suspicion’ _

Because that mattered so much. What was reasonable suspicion in the face of instinct? What else was it Cunningham had said?  _ ‘My gut hasn’t been wrong yet.’ _ Well Brian’s gut said proof be damned, Kyle did  _ something _ . Or maybe that was the alcohol talking. Or maybe they were the same thing. Instinct was just a series of observations your mind had somehow been able to separate from the rest of the shit that counted as thought, so vodka should count as a perfect shortcut to get there.

“Hey,” Kyle rasped, stopping by the barstool beside him that had miraculously stayed empty thus far thanks to the power of his dour mood. “I...can we talk?”

The look Brian fixed him with, he hoped, Kyle would put together as permission enough. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Not without shouting  _ ‘so, what’s it like knowing your alibi for whatever the fuck you did is a fucking bar fight?’  _ What the fuck did he think he was doing here? What was his angle? Was this—was this Kyle’s way of showing off that he hadn’t been caught? Was he trying to goad Brian on, or was he going to waste both of their times with some sort of bullshit excuse. Brian clenched his teeth to try and keep from shaking. Whatever happened here, he could always file a report about it later.

Right. Because the authorities had been so helpful thus far.

It took Kyle a moment, but after an uncomfortable pause, he caught on. He sat down. Brian’s grip tightened further, his knuckles straining to stay under his skin.

“I—um,” Kyle looked down, then raised a hand and nodded at the bartender. She nodded back—he’d probably been here long enough for her to know exactly what he was drinking. Figured. “I’m pretty sure I’m the last person you want to talk to right now but, I...fuck, I think I know exactly how you’re feeling.”

_ Liar _ , he thought reflexively.

A bottle was handed to him—Miller Lite, his taste as garbage as Brian remembered. Kyle passed the bottle back and forth between his hands anxiously. Like he had the fucking  _ right _ . He exhaled. “It’s just—shit, I just found out the other day… Brian, I’m sor—”

“Hey how about you do us both a fucking favor and  _ shut up _ .” he snapped. Maybe in another life, Brian would have known the right turn of phrase, the right twist of hand, to tear Kyle open and leave him raw and bloody on the floor. For now he’d just have to settle for wishful thinking. Kyle balked. His face twisted into something harsh and Brian wanted to punch the expression from his jaw.

“What the hell man? I’m just trying to—”

“Yeah, and I don’t really want to hear it!” Brian yelled. He bolted to his feet, the bar stool clattering to the ground behind him. The room—everything— _ fuck _ , it felt like Brian’s head was falling, separate from his body. He swayed, white knuckle gripping the counter with his free hand. It kept him upright, but he tore himself backwards and risked collapsing all over again when fucking Kyle had the  _ nerve _ to grab his shoulder.

“Alright man,” he hissed, “how about we head outside?”

Brian saw red. There was no way Kyle thought he was  _ that _ stupid, that he would actually,  _ willingly _ , go anywhere alone with him. “Why, one missing person isn’t enough for you?”

His face twisted again, unreadably. Fuck him. “That’s—okay I know you’re hurting, but that’s a low blow.”

The sound that erupted from Brian’s throat wasn’t quite a laugh. It wasn’t quite anything. Just one of those raw, unfiltered expressions of pure emotion you could only really manage at the right level of  _ too drunk; _ rage, frustration, bewilderment. Hurting? Like that even came close to the right definition.  _ Hurting  _ wasn’t even in the same zip code. “Right, right, so sorry about your fucking  _ feelings _ , why don’t you go snort something and make it all better. You think that’s low? Fine, let’s take this outside, I’ll show you a  _ low fucking blow _ .” He snarled. Apparently, he was that stupid. Or at least self destructive, surprising no one.

They stared one another down for a moment. The gears in Kyle’s head were visibly shifting, and Brian wanted to know what made them tick. Was he assessing outcomes? Considering who was watching? Was he thinking about Nigel’s last words, and how  _ dare _ he be the one to hear them? Was he being driven just as mad by the unknown of it all, or was he haunted by blood he would never manage to wash from his hands? Was he just thinking about his next high? Whatever was happening in his addled brain, Brian hoped his ghosts were just as macabre as his own. Several expressions crossed Kyles face at once; anger, frustration, pity. Pity for what? For poor, pathetic, unemployed Brian, who could probably hold his own in a fight about as well as he held his liquor? Like he got to judge. Sure, Kyle might have been nearly a head taller than him, but Brian was scrappy. He could take him. Probably. Maybe. Fuck it, if he couldn’t, what was the worst that could happen? He could die? Like his life was amounting to so much right now. Still, he thought, he would have liked to have another drink first.

Another moment, and Kyle rolled his eyes. “Come on, let’s go.”

He turned towards the exit, and it’s large glass walls and neon signs, with more coordination than Brian thought he could muster, but he did stagger. Brian pushed past him, half hoping to knock him to the floor, half not wanting to let Vauhgn think he was leading for even a second. Absently, some part of him was aware that exposing his back was a terrible idea. Absently, some other part of him was yelling at that part to get the fuck over itself. At least if anything did happen, this time there would be witnesses. 

A brief question of whether or not Brian had remembered to pay his tab crossed his mind as he pushed through the crowd. Whatever, did it really matter? The bell over the door was barely audible over the chatter of the bar, but the other side of the threshold was eerily quiet in contrast. There were still the distant sounds of traffic, the voices of students and tourists and friends looking for their favorite dives or music halls, but they all felt like Brian was hearing them from underwater. The sound of the heavy wood and glass door opening again behind him was crystal clear.

His breaths were visible before him, little clouds that lingered for a second before hurtling what little warmth they carried across the universe. The sidewalks glistened in the night lights, puddles illuminating every so often. It was the sort of thing Nigel definitely would have pointed out. His superpower of sorts; finding something worth looking at even in the deepest shit. Brian missed that.

Kyle crowded against his side, making Brian jump half out of his skin. Right. He was out here for a reason.

“Alright,” he exhaled with a shove, “let’s get you home”

Wait,  _ what? _ They weren’t—no, he didn’t get to pretend nothing was wrong. He didn’t get to pretend they were—what, acquaintances?  _ Friends?  _ That he was doing Brian some favor and herding him back in from making some terrible mistake, when his biggest mistake had been not resecting Kyle from their lives sooner? Brian pushed him. He stumbled backwards against Kyle’s mass, but at least he tripped towards the dim alley. “Fuck off, I said we were taking this outside.” 

“Brian,” he scoffed, his tone somewhere in between placation and condescension, “come on man, I’m not gonna fight you.” 

“Why the fuck not?” Brian challenged. Because he was taller? More muscular? Had probably hurt people before? Had the record to prove he’d  _ tried? _ Fine. But Brian had nothing to lose. He was shouting now, and he didn’t care who heard.

“Look,  _ asshole _ ,” he shoved Brian towards the street, as if that punctuated some point other than that he was a  _ raging asshole, _ “I came over to  _ apologize _ , alright? I know how much this sucks, he was my friend too you know—And I’m— _ fuck _ , I’m the fucking reason he’s—”

“ _ Jesus _ , I already  _ know  _ it’s your fault! I don’t want your fucking apology  _ I just want him back!”  _

Everything was so far beyond red. Brian wasn’t sure when he’d stepped forward, when he’d become the hunter cornering its prey, and he wasn’t sure it really mattered. He grabbed the front of Kyle’s shirt, before pushing back  _ hard _ . “Come on, fucking—fight me, do  _ something!” _

The world shifted into slow motion, the golden haze of intoxication numbing him to everything but the scene as it played out. Kyle’s foot touched down, making contact with a pool of stagnant water and oil and the fluids and contaminants that made up city life that everyone preferred not to think about. His ankle—his knee— _ something _ gave out, and he twisted, hands reaching for purchase that didn’t exist. Brian’s eyes widened. He might have yelled—his throat had gone completely dry regardless, as Kyle, the subject of all his rage, the only person who might hold any of the unknowns Brian sought after, fell. 

He hadn’t noticed the dumpster used by the bar, or it’s rigid steel corners, until after Kyle’s skull had crashed against it. 

* * *

Heavy fog was rolling in over the bay, but it would never be enough to keep Brian from seeing what he had done, over and over. Nothing ever could be.

_ There was— _ fuck _ , there was so much blood. Objectively, he knew head wounds bled more than other injuries, more than a few first aid classes and novels alike had mentioned it, but God that was a lot of blood. Brian’s breaths were coming fast and shallow. He should—he needed to check for a pulse, he needed to get Kyle up. He could walk this off, they could get him to a hospital, right? Kyle was ragdoll limp and all dead weight. A far cry from the too-drunk friends from undergrad who Brian would pull off the floor—despite his similar state of inebriation. They would be an uncoordinated mess, stumbling to the ground together more than once, but at least James or Josh or Benedict would put in  _ some _ effort. Brian tried to get him upright, tried to get him to  _ wake the hell up _ , but he just kept collapsing and —oh God, his fucking skull was concave,  _ what was the point? _ Brian jumped back, a yelp escaping his throat while Kyle collapsed back to the pavement, his neck flopping at the worst angle and oh God, what had he done, what had he  _ done?

He couldn’t remember walking this way. The sidewalk stretched out before him like a concrete snake, the sea to his side and the bridge overpass just ahead. Cooper’s Park, he figured. He’d never seen it this empty before, but he’d never been here this late either. Was it that late even? Brian fumbled for his phone—and his pockets came up empty. He could feel the blood pooling from his face. Maybe it was still in his apartment, but what if he’d left it at the bar?  _ Fuck _ , what if he’d left it  _ behind _ the bar? He needed to go back and get it, but wouldn’t going back be the worst choice he could make? No, the worst choice Brian could have made was getting in a bar fight in the rain and  _ killing someone _ , but there was no taking that back now. He wanted to scream, he wanted—someone,  _ anyone _ , to hear him, to wake him up and tell him he could forget anything had ever happened. But there was no one. Even the geese had disappeared for the night.

_ He heaved, bile and alcohol and rage purging itself from his system, leaving room only for all-encompassing dread. Did—fuck, did vomit have DNA in it? Would someone be able to trace this back to him? He needed to get away, he needed to get away  _ now _ but Kyle was there, he was  _ right fucking there _. His eyes were still open. _

_ It was still dark. If he bolted, no one would see him, no one could say for sure he’d done anything here but be sick—but that wasn’t true. There’d been yelling,  _ so much yelling _ , there’d been—fuck, there’d been threats, and someone had  _ definitely _ seen them head outside together. It was dark now, but it wouldn’t stay dark for long. Maybe another 5-6 hours at most until sunrise, when crimson light would streak over the crimson pools he’d left in the asphalt. And that was assuming some poor, hapless bartender didn’t stumble out with the trash in an hour or so and trip over his face. Brian’s hands wouldn’t stop trembling. His back crashed against the brick facade of the alley and he sunk down, his knees tucked against his chest. He couldn’t stay here but he couldn’t leave Kyle out here and—his gaze narrowed in on the dumpster, and his blood ran cold. _

There was still blood under his fingernails, drying and crusted on his forehead, on the shoulder of his jacket. He’d have to burn it. He’d have to— _ fuck _ , he should just turn himself in. He hadn’t even tried to clean his hands yet, and he wasn’t sure there was a point.

He kept walking towards the bridge. Why didn’t seem to matter. Maybe it was his primitive brain seeking shelter from the elements. Maybe it was his subconscious trying to tell him something. Most likely it was just shock. Moving for the sake of moving, for fear that if he stopped he’d never get himself to start again. The vodka he’d been nursing most of the night was on the ground by a backdoor far from here or on his shoes, but Brian’s head still spun. His limbs still didn’t feel quite like his own. A figure moved in the fog ahead. He wasn’t alone.

_ Moving Kyle—Kyle— _ the body _ , he  _ had _ to stop thinking of this as a person if he was going to keep it together, was never going to be easy. He tried pushing him up against the wall, he tried dragging him up by his clothes and only had torn flannel to show for his efforts, he tried tossing it over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He’d almost been sick all over again. Somehow,  _ somehow _ , he’d managed to get Ky—the body over the four foot rim of the dumpster. Somehow, Kyle had vanished head first into the steel pit. There wasn’t a distinct thud, just the shifting of plastic bags and some squeaking Brian was actively choosing not to think about. The bin sounded full enough, maybe pickup was happening soon. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe today. Maybe no one would ever find him. _

_ Maybe someone would put out a report for Kyle, and they’d drive themselves just as mad looking for answers they’d never get. Maybe he’d find a way to make sure he was long gone before he had to find out.  _

_ Brian collapsed against the wall again, bruising his shoulder in a hit he barely felt. He couldn’t stop shaking, he couldn’t stop he couldn’t stop— _

_ This time, he couldn’t hold the bile back. _

The figure didn’t move, and Brian didn’t have to guess long who it was. He continued to stumble forward, his personal wraith coming into focus. The blood spattered across his blue flannel was painfully sharp, the lines under his eyes dark and pronounced. His hair was wild, unkempt, and his stubble had grown out, but the bones were all the same. It wasn’t real, it  _ wasn’t _ , but it was close enough. Brian’s steps slowed as he came closer, as though acknowledging the illusion would break it. Or it would break him, if that weren’t already a foregone conclusion. He started to lift a hand towards him, before pulling it back. Still, when he blinked, the phantom blinked back, and tilted it’s head slightly to the side.

“...Nigel?” Brian whispered, his voice managing to crack a dozen ways in the space of two syllables. It was a question, it was a prayer, it was more than he would ever deserve to ask for again.

Nigel blinked again, slowly. He raised a hand towards Brian and—his fingers stopped on the side of his face, his thumb brushing across Brian’s cheek. His palm was hot and solid and  _ real _ , and Brian keened into the touch before he could think. Didn’t know whether to press his face fully into Nigel’s hand or to fall to his knees and sob. Nigel made no move to take his hand away, but—he grinned. Softly, it was such a small expression that it should have meant nothing, but it set off knots in Brian’s gut. His fingers tightened against Brian’s face, holding him still, and something flashed— _ literally flashed _ behind his eyes, the hazel depths he’d swam in so many nights becoming embers. Brian’s heart started pounding again, his palms sweating. Something was wrong, something was  _ very  _ wrong but he couldn’t figure out what and he couldn’t  _ move _ .

“Oh Quentin,” the thing that wasn’t Nigel cooed, while every part of himself silently screamed  _ run _ , “we’re going to have so much fun together.”


End file.
